Oh Lovely, My Reed's Broken Again
by youbetcha
Summary: A collection of stories and such (in chronological order) of my life as an oboe player in elementary, middle, and now high school.
1. I'm going to play the what?

((a/n: I'm putting these stories in the marching band section because there really is no other place to put it. I do have several marching band stories up, though, if you'd like to read "Behind the Front Sideline" and "This Is So Not My Mambo"))  
  
It was fourth grade, and I was 10 years old. I was also bouncing out of my chair with barely anticipated excitement. I couldn't hear a thing the teacher, or my best friend Stephanie, was saying. Why? Because today was the day to end all days. Today I was going to get my clarinet!  
  
In my old elementary school, you were allowed to take an instrument when you were in 4th grade. Of course, the thing is, you had to wait until you were in 4th grade. You weren't allowed to take one before that, unless you count the little plastic flutophones in 3rd grade. But those flutophones were easy! When I had done that last year, I mastered the basics and the songs quickly, and soon became tired of the slow speed we played them. The flutophones were not enough, I wanted bigger things! More impressive things!  
  
In other words, I wanted a clarinet.  
  
I wanted to play an instrument. I had known that for the longest time. From the minute I got my grubby little toddler hands on this old plastic instrument where you'd make notes by pressing little keys, I knew I wanted an instrument. I was ecstatic when we learned to play the flutophones. . . but that wasn't enough. Come fourth grade you got to select an instrument to learn. Then you'd rent it from the school, have lessons, and band class. . . and you'd learn an instrument!  
  
Several weeks prior, this fellow came in and gave us a presentation on instruments. He played some drums, did a piece on the trumpet that made us all laugh, the tuba, other brass instruments, the flute, and the clarinet. My eyes breezed right over all of these. . . until he came to the clarinet. That's when I realized that that was my instrument, no doubt about it. I was going to learn the clarinet! I had run home to my mom that day with the sign up sheet (you had to fill out a form and bring it back so they could issue a rental to you), yelling about "my clarinet" that I was soon going to learn. My mom rolled her eyes and signed the sheet, and I brought it back the next day.  
  
A week later, the band director (who in this story shall just remain as "Mrs. B") began calling people up to the little music room (chorus and band shared it) to give people their rentals. Each day I'd see more of my fellow fourth graders leave and come back carrying black instrument cases. My friend Stephanie even returned one day with her trumpet. But when would be my turn? It would have to be SOON!  
  
Three days after the calls began, I knew today would be my day. After all, I'd have to get something! Mrs. B seemed nice, and she wouldn't just leave me. Oh, my clarinet. . . so close! So very close! I could almost---  
  
BEEP! I jumped. . . so did the rest of the class. My teacher got up and went to the phone, which was what had beeped. She picked it up. "Hello?"  
  
There was a pause. "Heather and Kathryn? (I have many names, but for the purpose of the story I shall refer to myself by my author's name) You want me to send them down?" Pause. "Alright." She hung up.  
  
"Heather and Kathryn? Mrs. B wants you in the band room."  
  
YES! YES YES YES YES YES. . .  
  
I leaped from my seat and ran out the door, going so fast I nearly forgot Heather was there. I sighed, waiting for her. She came out, a bored look on her face. "Let's go!" I said impatiently. I was getting my clarinet today, and I wasn't going to wait any longer!  
  
"Calm down, Kathryn! It's just an instrument." Huffed Heather. She was a rather take-it-as-it-comes kind of person, not to be excited over anything. Stupid Heather, making me wait! I scowled at her. "Hurry up!" I said, running ahead.  
  
We finally reached the band room, after what seemed like ages. I opened the door and bounced happily in. Nothing was going to ruin my happiness today, because I was getting my clarinet!  
  
Mrs. B saw us. "Come in, sit down." She said, beckoning for us to sit in two of the seats up front. "Kathryn and Heather, am I correct?"  
  
"I'm Kathryn!" I said happily. Kathryn who would soon be a clarinet player! "And I'm Heather." Replied Heather nonchalantly.  
  
"I see." Mrs. B paused. "You both wanted to learn the clarinet, and rent one as an instrument?" She inquired.  
  
"YES! Yesyesyesyesyes. . ." I cried  
  
She smiled. "Calm down, Kathryn. And you too, Heather?"  
  
"I don't care. Why not." Came Heather's reply. Really!  
  
"I'm afraid then I have some bad news for you." Mrs. B said.  
  
Now, here's the part in which fate comes in to play. A strange twist of fate that changed my entire life.  
  
"There are no more clarinets available for rent."  
  
WHAAAAATTTT???  
  
NO WAY! NO NO NO NO WAY WAY WAY WAY. . .  
  
My fourth grade mind was incapable of seeing anything else at that moment except defeat and disappointment. No clarinet? None? I couldn't play my clarinet? I would have one?  
  
I began slowly sliding out of my seat, as they do in the cartoons when someone slops into a puddle, a picture of abject defeat. Oh, my dreams! My longing to play at the Arbor Day concert since I was in kindergarten, gone! Gone in a single flash, gone because some scumbag took the last clarinet! Oh, woe is me! Oh defeat! Oh bitter ends!  
  
"Okay." Heather said. "That's okay. I'll go back to class now." And Heather got up and left, leaving me, a puddle of nothing, on the chair. Oh, sorrow! Defeat! Desolation!  
  
"I see you're disappointed." Said Mrs. B.  
  
Understatement of the century.  
  
"I wanted to play the clarinet," I said mournfully, picking myself up and slumping into the chair. "I did. I waited for this day so I can have my clarinet. I waited and waited. . ." I gave my voice a sad tinge, so maybe she'd feel sorry for me and get me a clarinet anyway.  
  
"You really had your heart set on this, didn't you?" She looked sympathetic.  
  
"Yes." I said sadly.  
  
"Hmm." She paused. "Is there any other instrument that you'd like to play?"  
  
"No." I replied. Were there any other instruments? No, there was my clarinet, and nothing else. Nothing mattered if I didn't have my clarinet.  
  
But the teacher was determined. "Flute?" She offered.  
  
"Too high." Gah, not the flute!  
  
"Drums?"  
  
"Too loud." Drums were for boys.  
  
"The trumpet?"  
  
"Too common." We had dozens of trumpet players in our band. Oh, agony, oh defeat. . .  
  
Then, Mrs. B made the most random suggestion of her life-and mine. A suggestion, I later found out, that she doesn't usually make to elementary school kids.  
  
"Well, how about the oboe?"  
  
The what?  
  
"Oboe? What's that?" I asked. I had no concept of what it was, being as I'd never heard the name spoken before the day. But it was an instrument that was unknown to me, so of course I was rather interested.  
  
"Let me show you." Mrs. B went to a big closet full of instruments and opened it. She shuffled through and then came out with a black case. And it was the size of a clarinet case, about!  
  
She brought the unknown case over to me. "This is an oboe." She popped it open.  
  
It looked kinda like a clarinet. It was in three pieces and it was black with these shiny silver keys. The end of it didn't look like a clarinet, it was rounder and weird shaped. It had lots of cool shiny keys, and it was. . . like a clarinet!  
  
The strange instrument appealed to me almost immediately. "It looks weird," I said. "How do you put it together?" Mrs. B took it out and fitted the three pieces together, showing me where they go. "Hold it." She handed me this. . . oboe.  
  
I took the instrument in my hands. The keys were cold, and when I held it it was like holding a clarinet. It was the same size as one, and it was long and black and stuff.  
  
I liked it.  
  
I smiled as I continued to look over this odd new instrument. It was not a clarinet, but it was like one! And it was so shiny!  
  
"I like it!" I exclaimed to Mrs. B. "It's so cool!"  
  
Mrs. B smiled. "And did you know that when you start playing it, it sounds like a goose?"  
  
A goose? Cool! That was it, I loved it.  
  
"I like it! A lot!"  
  
"Do you want to learn to play it?"  
  
"Yes!" I said, suddenly excited with my own realization. I wanted to play this instrument! I wanted to sound like a goose, and to play this clarinet- not-really thing! It was cool!  
  
Mrs. B seemed very happy. She took out a piece of paper and wrote three things down: "Jones, oboe reeds, medium soft (they are double reeds), cork grease, lesson book" and handed it to me. "Here's the things you'll have to get for the oboe. The reeds are not like clarinet reeds, they are double reeds." I got this image of two clarinet reeds, one on top of another, when she said that. "Bring them in next Wednesday, and I'll give you the oboe and your first lesson. How's that?"  
  
"That's great! I'll get it! Oh, I can't wait!"  
  
She smiled again, and handed me a new permission form. "Give this to your mom. Since you're going to be renting an oboe, I need your mom to sign a new permission form."  
  
"Okay!" I snatched it out of her hands, clutching it happily to my chest along with the note of supplies I would need. Then I bounced happily out of the band room, my spirits soaring. I wasn't going to play the clarinet, I was going to play. . .  
  
The oboe!  
  
((So, how'd that sound? Make any sense at all? This was when I was in fourth grade, so of course it should be a bit childish. I'll continue even if I don't get lots of reviews because I want to write these stories, but reviews are VERY VERY nice and VERY MUCH appreciated)) 


	2. The oboe!

((yay! Thanks to all the chaps who reviewed!))  
  
"Mom! Mom, lookit! You have to see this!" I cried, running through the door to my house. My mom was sitting at the table, doing her stuff for work. I slammed the door shut and ran into the kitchen, seeing my mom bent over a work schedule. "Mom, guess what!" I exclaimed, plopping down in the seat next to her.  
  
Mom turned, raising an eyebrow at me. "I can't guess. What?"  
  
Grinning, I put the permission form in front of her. "I get to play an instrument!" I said happily. "'Member when I told you I was gonna play the clarinet? And you signed for it?"  
  
"Yes. . .?"  
  
"Well, I'm not gonna play the clarinet." I told her with a grin.  
  
She set down the schedule. "You're not? Then what ~are~ you going to play?"  
  
With a proud grin I replied, "The oboe!"  
  
Unfortunatlely, my mom had no idea what that was. She knew the clarinet and was glad I was going to play an instrument (and was expecting it to be that one), but when I told her I was going to learn the oboe, all I got was a rather blank stare and my mom saying, "The what?"  
  
It took me awhile to explain myself. I told her everything, how the last clarinet was taken, and instead of me playing nothing the band director suggested I take up the oboe. My mom still had no idea what it was, but nevertheless she signed the permission form and promised me that she would take me to get the supplies Mrs. B said I'd need.  
  
Indeed we did that. We went to the local music shop and I got the lesson book, the reeds (They didn't look ~anything~ like two clarinet reeds! There was a cork thing, some string, and then two funny-looking pieces of wood sticking out from the top. They looked weird!) and the cork grease. Mom also signed the permission form. And then two days later I came to school proudly carrying this bag of stuff--ready for my first lesson.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
BEEP! "Hello?" Said my teacher exasperately. We were in the middle of a lesson and she really didn't like to be interrupted. "Fine." With a sigh, she hung up and turned to me. "Kathryn, Mrs. B wants you for lessons."  
  
LESSONS!  
  
"I'll get my work later." I said obediently to my teacher. I grabbed the bag of stuff (which was sitting on my desk all morning) and then ran quickly out of the room. I grinned at all the other people who were in the hallways for whatever reason, and walked up to the band room.  
  
Mrs. B was walking around the band room setting up chairs when she saw me come in. "Oh, hello there." She said with a smile. "That was fast."  
  
"Yeah." I agreed.  
  
"Sit down, and we can get started." She beckoned for me to sit down in a chair close to the front, and then she sat next to me. "Let's see what you got." She pulled the items slowly out of my bag and put them on yet another chair. "Lesson book. . .good. We'll start on that today. Reeds. . .good, you got three. You'll be needing them. Cork grease. . .good. Fabulous." She smiled amiably at me. I gave her the permisson slip. "Great!" Mrs. B, I learned, was a very outgoing music teacher. "Now let me give you your oboe and show you a little bit with it."  
  
She went to the same cabinet as before and took the oboe out of it, then walked over to me and set it down. "Now, the first thing I shall show you is how to put it together, hold it, and how to put the reed in." She showed me exactly those things. After I tried it a few times myself, she declared that I was ready to learn a few notes.  
  
I stuck the reed in my mouth and held it in place. "This first note is a B." She said, putting my pointer finger down on a key. "Now, play!"  
  
I blew through the reed into the instrument. It made a weird honking noise, and I jumped. Mrs. B laughed. "You got it! That's it!" She said. I took the reed out and grinned. I was learning! "Now, this is an A." She put another finger down and I honked out an A. The last note she taught me that day was a G. By the end of the lesson, I was able to. . .play three notes!  
  
Grinning in triumph, I honked out those three notes in different combinations for the rest of my lesson. She taught me some music, how to read it, and the basic few notes and how many beats they are. By the end of the lesson, I was well on my way to becoming a real oboe player! And I. . . loved it. This was a fabulous instrument! I thought as I bounced happily out of the tiny band room, clutching my new rental oboe with the three reeds inside. I came into my classroom still smiling--I loved this instrument!!  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The first thing I got home was take out that new oboe and continue honking those three notes I learned today in lessons. I played them until I figured I had them perfectly, and then. . . a song came to mind. One of the very simple songs we learned on our flutophones was one called "Twighlight Snowfall" ((a/n: and gosh darn it, would you believe I still remember some of it today?)), and the notes for it. . . were the same three notes I learned today! And being as we only learned it on the recorder last year, the rest of the notes were fresh in my mind.  
  
So I took my oboe and took the music I committed to memory, and played it. Those three notes actually took the form of one of my old songs. . . that I still knew! I did nothing but play that song (and anything else I could) until my mom came home, looking quizzical.  
  
"Hi mom!" I said happily, looking over the oboe at her.  
  
"Is that. . . an oboe?" She asked increduously.  
  
"Yeah!" I replied with a grin. "See, lookit! It's got lots of keys and stuff." I handed the oboe to my mom, who looked at it skeptically. After all, she hadn't ever heard of that instrument since I told her about it. . . like three days ago.  
  
"Interesting," She said. "So how was your first lesson today?"  
  
"LESSONS!" I burst out. "They were great! I learned three notes. . . listen!" I snatched the oboe back from my mom and played those three notes. Now, back then I sounded truly like a duck, and I have no idea how my mom put up with it. But she smiled and said, "Oh, that sounds nice."  
  
"And I can play a song!" I added. "Listen!" Then I proceeded to play "Twighlight Snowfall."  
  
At that, my mom looked mildly impressed. "You can play a song already?" She asked.  
  
"It's not that hard," I told her. "It's a really easy song. And next week I have lessons again and I'm going to learn more notes and more songs! And soon I'll be the greatest oboe player in all the world!" I said enthusiastically.  
  
"Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves." My mom said with amusement. "One step at a time, right?"  
  
I nodded. "Right."  
  
With a final grin, I took the reed and yanked it out of the oboe. I yanked it out a bit too hard. . . my finger slipped up the string into the wood, which broke with a CRACK! Thus became my first broken reed. . . the first of many. Luckily my mom didn't see that (she went in the kitchen), so I took the now-broken reed and stuffed it in my case with the rest of my new oboe. Oh well, I still had two left, right? (see how naive I was).  
  
But nevertheless, right NOW it didn't matter. So let the reeds break, I guess that's what they'll do ((a/n: That's exactly what they'll do. . . that, and not work when you have very important concerts that night)). I took my oboe and went into my room smiling.  
  
Yep. . . all those clarinet players could play all they wanted, because I was an oboist!  
  
((glad y'all liked the first chapter. I'll keep writing if you want more)) 


	3. The first concert and first solo

((Would you believe that this is my most quickly reviewed story? I'm only on chapter two and already have this many reviews...I LOVE YOU ALL REVIEWERS!!))  
  
"Let's take it from the beginning of Jingle Bells." Said Mrs. B. Three months later, I had learned more than three notes (in fact, I learned lots of notes!) and now we were preparing for the first concert of the year. This would in fact be my first concert ever! We had three songs we would be playing, and among them a simple "Jingle Bells". Now, my lessons were no longer alone, but with the flutes because it was easier and my notes were closest to them. So here we were, playing "Jingle Bells", very easily.  
  
The flutes messed up again, and we went from the beginning again. The flutes annoyed me. Most of them were the popular people of my school here, and most of them had trouble playing. Also, for some reason I was so often associated with them (little did I know this would be the beginning of long years of "Flutes, play! Oh yeah, and oboe too."). Just because of the music! My instrument wasn't anything like theirs, and I was proud of it.  
  
But this time after lessons, I had something to show Mrs. B.  
  
You see, we started working on Jingle Bells about two months ago. I got it in the first month, and then had a second month. . . of what? I certainly wasn't going to sit there and be bored. I was going to do something.  
  
The only thing we did of Jingle Bells was the beginning part, the "jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way" part. We did that over and over three times with different sets of instruments. But what of the "dashing through the snow" part? We didn't have it in our music, and we evidently weren't going to play it.  
  
But I knew it.  
  
You see, one of the things I found I was good at, strangely enough, was playing by ear. I could hear a melody, and after trial and error on my oboe for a long time, I could figure it out ((For example: Just the other day, I was trying to figure out the "Cosette, it's turned so cold. . ." part from "Come to Me: Fantine's Death" from Les Miserables. . . I didn't have the music, but I knew the melody)). My mom called it 'playing by ear', so I guess that's what I did. After many days (leading into weeks) of trial and error, I finally figured out the "dashing through the snow" part. I had been dying to play it for Mrs. B to see if she liked it.  
  
"That's enough for today, flutes. And oboe." She said, sitting down in the band director chair up front. The flutes nodded. Most of them decided to take their instruments because they were bored and wanted to get out of class for lessons. None of them, so far as I could tell, were really serious.  
  
"And oboe, Kathryn." Added Mrs. B as the flutes filed out, and I stood there still holding my oboe.  
  
"Mrs. B, I don't want to go yet." I said.  
  
"Why not? The low brass is coming in soon."  
  
"'Cause I got somethin' to show you." I replied, nodding my head in anticipation. She had to hear it! It was good, too. . .  
  
Mrs. B sat up, now looking more interested (probably her hearing returning from a half-hour with those shrill flutes). "What do you want to show me?"  
  
"Somethin' I made." I continued, leaving out the most important detail, my young mind wanting to keep the teacher interested. "A song." I said.  
  
She tilted her head at me. "You made a song?"  
  
"Naw. I figured out a song." I replied. "In Jingle Bells. The 'dashing through the snow' part. I figured it out, I can play it. Wanna hear?" I finished eagerly.  
  
Now Mrs. B looked interested. "You figured it out? Without music? Yes, Kathryn, I'd definitely like to hear it."  
  
With Mrs. B's words of encouragement, I stuck the reed in my mouth and played. I did it the best I could from memory, glad to see I remembered most of it. When I finished, I turned to Mrs. B to see what her reaction was.  
  
She was staring at me, one hang on her chin, her head tilted slightly, looking extremely ponderous. She didn't say anything for a moment, just stared, then nodded slightly. "Mrs. B?" I asked, anxious to hear her reply. "Did ya like it?"  
  
Mrs. B blinked out of her daze. "Kathryn, do you mean to tell me that you came up with that all by yourself, without music?" She asked increduously.  
  
"Yes, Mrs. B." I answered obediently. No one helped me. I made it up. Yes, me, all my myself!  
  
Mrs. B looked ponderous again, and then said, "I like it. I can't believe you did that, though. Could you do it again if you wanted?"  
  
"Yes, Mrs. B."  
  
"Hmm." She pasued once more. "Well. . ." There was a knock on the door, and two boyish faces peered in. "The low brass. Come in," She opened the door for them, and the baritone and trombone players came stomping in. "Hi Kathryn," Said Nicky, sticking his tongue out at me. I crossed my eyes back at him. "Well, I have to think about something. Come back your next lesson, and by then I'll have it decided."  
  
~Have what decided?~ I wondered as I put my oboe back in the case and left the band room. ~Why did Mrs. B look so ponderous?~ I did wonder. All I did for her was play a song. Decide what? It would haunt me until next week, when my next lesson would be.  
  
~next week, when I had my next lesson~  
  
After a half hour of shrill flutes and the occasional sound of an oboe (better than the flutes, in my ears), Mrs. B dismissed them and went on to telling me what she was thinking about last week.  
  
"I was amazed when you played that part of Jingle Bells. I didn't think you, having only started, could figure out something by ear. So I want to propose something to you."  
  
Propose? Did she want to marry me or something?  
  
"I'd like you to play that as a solo in our annual Christmas concert."  
  
I blinked. "A solo, Mrs. B?"  
  
She smiled. "Yes, a solo. After you, the flutes, and the clarinets play that beginning part of Jingle Bells, I want you to play the "dashing through the snow" part. . . as a solo. What do you say to that?"  
  
My mind was reeling. A solo? Me? A little fourth grader, barely educated in the key of Bb, playing a solo? But I liked the idea. Oh yes, I liked it a lot. They'd all know about me, the oboe player, when I did it! In an instant, I loved Mrs. B's idea and agreed whole heartedly with it. "I'll do it!" I exclaimed.  
  
She looked surprised. "You will? I mean, I know you just started, so. . ."  
  
"No, I want to!" I continued, my heart swelling with elatedness. "I want to do a solo! Because I have oboe power!"  
  
She smiled at that. "Then I'll help you work on it, and by the Christmas concert we'll have it ready, right?"  
  
"Right!"  
  
I left that lesson today surprised and happy. I never expected, not in a thousand years, that I, the little fourth grade oboist who was often forgotten in the flutes, was going to do a solo. Really! Me, a solo! And a pretty big one, too! I couldn't wait to share the news with my mom when I got home. This was my first solo. . . MY first solo!! And I'd start practicing right away. . . it was going to be absolutely perfect for the concert!  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Two months later, when the time of the Christmas concert came, I felt ready to do this. I walked into my fourth grade classroom, where all the instrumentalists of this concert were assembling, and put my oboe on my desk. I looked around nervously and smoothed my maroon dress, the one my mom insisted I wear for my first concert and my solo. I was feeling the nervousness now. I had never played before in front of such a large audience! What would become of me?  
  
Well, to be honest, I actually did feel ready for it. I had gone over my solo with Mrs. B countless times and even though I didn't have music I committed it to memory. I still memorized the solo and knew it perfectly. I knew all the songs perfectly, I could do this!  
  
I put my oboe together, and chatted a bit with my friend Elaine. She played the trumpet and was at the concert today. She knew I had a solo and wished me the best of luck with it. So then about fifteen minutes before we were supposed to head out, I went to the bathroom. I took my reed with me, not trusting to leave it alone in a classroom full of fourth graders.  
  
I stuck the reed into my mouth and went into the bathroom. I did my business and fixed my hair, then took the reed out of my mouth and carried it. I left the bathroom and began walking down the hall back to the classroom, the reed in my hand hanging by my side. "Hi Kathryn!" Said a voice of a classmate who wasn't in band. They surprised me. . . I jerked around in surprise, and. . .  
  
And the reed bumped my leg. I could feel it as the wooden tip struck my dress against my leg. . .  
  
I jerked up in surprise. I flung my hand up to my eyes, looking at the reed in utmost horror, terror forming in my eyes. No way this had just happened! No way the reed had just hit my leg. . . reeds usually break when they hit things, especially oboe reeds, which I was coming to learn were very tempermental.  
  
But no, I had to face the truth. The top of the reed was bent a bit, and there was a hairline crack (such cracks as those can be fatal to reeds) running from the top to the mid-length of the wooden part. My reed-my only good reed-had indeed broken. And the very night of my first concert, my debut, my solo! There was nothing else to do, so I did the only logical thing a fourth grader would do in this situation--  
  
I ran into the classroom, bawling my eyes out.  
  
One of the teachers ran over to comfort me. "Don't cry now, Kathryn, don't cry." The teacher whispered, handing me a tissue to wipe my now-red eyes. "You nervous for the concert? Is that what's wrong?"  
  
"M-my reed!" I sobbed. "It's broken! Look!" I held up the reed, showing her the bend and the crack, my tears coming afresh. "I can't play when it's broken! I've got a solo and it'll sound bad and they all will laugh at me. . ." I buried my head into the teacher's dress.  
  
Mrs. B came in. "Kathryn?" She inquired. "What's wrong?" I raised my head. She was the band director. She'd understand.  
  
"My reed!" I said. "It broke, Mrs. B! I banged it against my leg and now it's broken! I can't play!" I rubbed my running nose against the sleeve of my dress. "I can't do my solo! Look!" I handed the reed to Mrs. B, somehow hoping that her allmighty band director-ness could magically fix my reed. She took it and examined it.  
  
"It's a very small crack," She said reassuringly. "I'm positive that it won't affect your playing. You just have to use it for tonight, and then it'll be fine, right? Come on now, you can't play if you're crying." Mrs. B said sensibly, drying my tears with a tissue. "You have oboe power, don't you?"  
  
"Yes, I do." I sniffed. "I have lots of oboe power."  
  
"Then use that oboe power, and get out there and play your best. They won't be able to tell, I promise."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"Yes, I promise."  
  
By now, most of the people in my band had gone outside into the gym and was setting up. I was one of the few left in the classroom. The other ones left were so nervous the teacher had to all but force them out. "Go out there and show them your oboe power." Mrs. B said, drying the last of my tears and indicating for me to go out in the hall. I ran and grabbed my oboe, taking care to balance the reed safely in my mouth, and went into the gym with the rest of them.  
  
I got into the gym last. My parents waved to me. . . my dad with his notorious video camera, ready to film my first solo. I managed a smile to him, because he was filming already. Then I squeezed in to my place between the flutes and the clarinets. I took a look at my music, strewn with its large and easy notes, and fingered my solo to myself. ~You can do this,~ I thought. ~It's just a small crack. It'll work. No one will know the difference.~  
  
Mrs. B got up. She made a quick speech to the audience, introducing our band and the instrumentalists. She said that we had all worked hard, and we were getting very good at our instruments. And now for our first song, "When the Saints. . ."  
  
The first song went well. We played good, but then. . .  
  
"The next song we'll be doing is 'Jingle Bells'. This song will be having a soloist doing the "dashing through the snow" part in the middle. I give you Kathryn, our oboe player, who will be playing this. Now, she had a bit of reed trouble earlier on, so she might be a little off. But she will do good, because our Kathryn has oboe power!"  
  
I had oboe power!  
  
We began the song, me and the flutes playing the intro. I felt ready now, despite my reed problems. . . I felt the oboe power and felt the renewed confidence that Mrs. B gave me. This was MY solo and I could DO THIS! One...two...three...  
  
I raised the oboe to my lips, taking the reed in between, and played. . . dashing through the snow. . . in a one horse open sleigh. . .  
  
My honking notes, the notes of a young oboist who has barely picked up the instrument and has only been playing for three months, rang out through the hall. My notes did not squeak and they were all right, and when my solo, MY solo, was finished, I felt such pride and joy as the entire audience clapped. . . for me. Yes, for me. . . for the little fourth grade oboist with the broken reed that just played. . . ME!  
  
I went through the rest of the songs in a happy daze. The music, however simple it was, sang through me in my oboe happiness. But I didn't care about the rest of the songs-they were no matter to me now! No matter at all. . .  
  
When we finished, the first thing I did after I put my oboe away was run back into the auditorium to find Mrs. B. "Did ya hear me?" I said, clapping my hands together, the music still bright in my eyes.  
  
Mrs. B smiled proudly down at me, and then at my parents when they came to greet me in my jubilation. "Kathryn, you are probably one of my best students right now. I've never heard someone who has picked up an oboe only three months ago play a solo like you've done tonight--and with your reed problems and everything." She smiled at my parents. "You have quite the little musician here," She said. I grinned up at my parents. My mom nodded and said, "She's been practicing quite alot. I'm very proud of her with this."  
  
"So am I." Mrs. B said with a nod.  
  
I clutched my oboe case jubilantly. I had done this! My first solo was more than a success. . . it was a triumph! I loved this instrument and I loved being an oboe player, and it was all worth it.  
  
And I had wanted to play the clarinet.  
  
((more coming, fear not, if I ever get around to it :P I'm very busy, actually. . . I've got a concert with the conservatory I study with next week, a few performances, and I'm trying out for the NJ Youth Symphony on June 12th and am already nervous about that)) 


	4. Cant think of a title, so Chapter Four!

((Hi yugi!! I didn't know you were on fanfiction! Great to see you here :) Sorry I haven't been much on neopets lately, been too busy, and too obsessed with my musicals, haha.  
  
Trisha, you have no idea how useful the expression of "go bugger a raoul" has become. . . I told you I used it for my hoverer and I also used it for that Phantom-hating girl I told you about and confused the heck out of her. That thing with the swordfights still gets me. . . what do they think they are doing with our musical? Ready the lassos and let's go.  
  
The Miserable-Les Mis is a good musical. I can't believe it's off Broadway. . . it shouldn't be. I swear I will never ever see the boy from oz, the musical that's going into the Les Mis theatre. Would you believe that musical already has 5 stars and is not even out yet? And Les Mis only had 4. The nerve of some people. . .  
  
Sadness.just finished reading Order of the Phoenix. *sniff* I can't read any of the other books the same way again.especially with.HIM.*sobs*))  
  
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. . .  
  
Actually, it was nearing final concert time. Many months later, after the winter concert, the time came where we'd have to do our final concert for the year--you guessed it, the spring concert. It was now May, and I shuffled the music in front of me that we were playing.  
  
A lot had changed since that day of my solo. I stayed in the intermediate band (that was the band with my fellow fourth graders, the beginners) but Mrs. B, thinking me good enough, also moved me into the advanced band (well, the fifth grade band). I was very proud of this, too. She thought me good enough to play with the fifth graders! And my friend Steph was in that band, too, so at least I had another fourth grader with me. The flutists (for once again that is who I sat with) accepted me into their band. There were no oboes in the fifth grade band, either--I remained still the only one.  
  
I didn't have anymore solos that year, but I didn't mind. That solo at the Christmas concert satisfied me. . . I felt happy with my oboe-ness, so to speak. But here I was now, five months later, staying in at recess (I missed both lunch and recess on days such as these, because the fourth grade band rehearsed during our lunch, and the fifth grade band rehearsed my recess), glancing over my battered copy of "The Addams Family", one of the songs for our spring concert.  
  
Jianna, a fifth grade flutist from my lesson group (I went for lessons with the older flutists now, too), came down and sat next to me, as usual. She opened her case and put her flute together, smiling at me. "Say, Kathryn, do you have the edits for 'Addams Family'?" She inquired.  
  
"Sure, let me get it out." Mrs. B edited out some of that song to make it shorter. I pulled out my copy of the music and showed it to Jianna, who marked it on her music. "Thanks." She replied, nodding.  
  
"Alright!" Mrs. B came in, getting up on her bandstand and looking at all of us. "Now, onto the spring concert. You know how important this is. It's our final concert of the year, and for all the fifth graders here, your final concert in this school." Awww, poor fifth graders. I still had one year to go, muahahaha. Feel the power. "So you'll all have to go out with a bang, and fourth graders, you'll have to show them how good you've gotten from the beginning of the year until now." Yeah. We will.  
  
"I shall also be giving out the scholarships to Summer Band School. Fifth graders, you know from last year that each year I award two scholarships, one to a fourth grader and one to a fifth, the hardest working and most musical of the bunch. As you also know, I shall be keeping this award a surprise until the end of the concert.  
  
Continuing on. . ." Mrs. B talked about the lesson schedule and all kinds of other boring stuff. I wasn't really paying attention, I just couldn't wait until we started playing. Finally, the signal came. . . "Take out 'Addam's Family', and let's see if we can't get a bit of rehearsal time in today." Yay! Now we would get to play.  
  
****************  
  
Three weeks later was the concert. I was all excited the night before. . . this was going to be a good concert. It wasn't fun like the Arbor Day concert. Every year in our school, we'd have a mini concert for Arbor Day. Every year since I was in kindergarten, I'd stare up at the big kids up there playing their instruments and want to be there. All those years I stared longingly and waited, and then this year my time had come. I couldn't help but look at those little kids and remember when I was staring at then, and thought, "Eat your heart out." I didn't care. . . I was here now.  
  
But now it was the spring concert. This concert took place only a little while, about three weeks, after the Arbor Day one. But anyway, it was the night of the concert now, and I was preparing for it.  
  
"Mom, I like this dress, okay?" I said, wiggling out of my mom's grasp.  
  
"But it's so. . . it's not fancy enough, dear!"  
  
"Mom, it's fine!" This was just yet another fabulous fight of me vs. my mom in dressing. Even back then I couldn't stand dresses ((*snorts* that much hasn't changed)), and if I was going to wear one at all, it would be one that I chose.  
  
"Oh, fine." My mom said, resigning. "But at ~least~ let me do your hair!" Her hands reached out and took a hank of my hair.  
  
"NOOOO!" I yanked out of my mom's grasp once more. If there was one thing I hated more than dresses, it was my mom playing with my hair. And she LOVED doing that. "It's fine, no one's gonna care what my hair looks like. It's just my playin' they'll care about." I said rebelliously. "Just my playing."  
  
My mom sighed. "Fine," she muttered. "But if they think you look like a slob and not a musician, don't come crying to me." ((a/n: five years later, at a concert at the Conservatory where I take lessons, "Fine, but if you dress like a slob and not as a musician, they won't look at you as one")).  
  
"Yes, mom." I replied blithely. It was time to go now!  
  
I grabbed my oboe, my music, and without bothering to check my hair ran out the door. I could hear my mom sigh from inside the house, no doubt wanting to comment on my hair in a messy ponytail, my sneakers under my dress, and the hole in my tights that no one could see. I yanked open the car door and flung myself inside, putting my oboe and music on my lab and waiting for my very slow parents to catch up.  
  
"Really, we have a half an hour, there's no need to rush." My mom said as she and my dad got into the car. Very slowly, too. They liked to do this- torment me on purpose by going extremely slow for things I was waiting for. ((a/n: And they still do. . . when I was going to see "Phantom of the Opera" for my third time, they took forever to get going)) Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they started the car and drove off to the school. When we got there, I leaped out of the car with my oboe and my music and not even waiting for my parents, went tearing inside. I darted in the school and went to my classroom where everyone would meet.  
  
Sure enough, everyone was there. The boys had to dress nice and were looking very annoyed and surly at that. The girls had to wear dresses and were looking prim and happy (why, though, I didn't know). I put my oboe down at the desk near my friend, took it out, and put it together. However, I left the reed in its case until the last moment. Wasn't going to risk that again.  
  
The room was filled with avid chatter of the amateur musicians until Mrs. B came in. "Fourth graders," She said. "The time has come. Take your instruments and line up at the door!" Yes! Concert time! I took the reed (still in its case) and my oboe and lined up between the clarinets and the flutes, who were gawking at me as usual. Sigh. I didn't understand what they found so fascinating about oboes, anyway. It wasn't that odd an instrument.  
  
"Let's go!" Mrs. B clapped her hands and we all filed out into the hall and down to the gym. We passed the beaming faces of many parents before we got to our seats (the 5th graders were already there) and could put our music and instruments down at last. I sat excited in my chair, as I always was during concert time. I shuffled my music around, smiling at the flute player next to me (she was a 5th grader). Mrs. B made a short speech to the audience, and then turned and beckoned for us to start.  
  
I took the reed out of my case, stuck it in my mouth for a few seconds, and then put it on my oboe. I raised it to play as Mrs. B went to direct.  
  
The first song went well. So did the second, and the third, and fourth, and so on. Then Mrs. B stopped us, and turned to the audience once more. "Now," She said. "Each year, we have an award to give out to our students. This award is a $50 scholarship towards the tuition of Summer Band School, a program we have here for young musicians. Each year, we award one fourth and one fifth grade student with this award. It's a high honor, mostly given to those who intensely practice and are very into it. Our first award shall be given to. . ."  
  
There was a pause as she went to read the name. I took my reed out and stuck it in my mouth. . . awards were usually boring. Every time we had them in class they were boring.  
  
"Kathryn, the fourth grade oboe player."  
  
What?!  
  
My head jerked up from where I was sitting. Did she just call my name? Or. . . well, there really weren't any other fourth grade oboists named Kathryn, were there? But that's impossible, she really called my name. . . did she?  
  
The flutist next to me poked me. "That was you! Go up!" She hissed.  
  
In shock, I set my oboe down, the reed still in my mouth. . . where was I going to put the reed? Finally, I took it out and left it lying on the music stand, still cautious, for I didn't want anything to happen to my reed. I got up, crawling past the rows of flute players up to the front. The audience was applauding, I barley saw them. . .  
  
"Congratulations, Kathryn. I knew you had it in you." Mrs. B said, smiling, as she handed me what looked like a diploma tied with some blue ribbon. "Good luck." I turned, managing a shocked smile at the audience before sliding back to my seat, clutching the rolled up paper in my hands. She had chosen me for the summer band scholarship! I never thought she would! I wasn't even listening, either. . .  
  
I don't think I heard the next name called. It was some flutist, I knew that much. I stared at the paper in my hands still, as if not daring to believe it. . .  
  
After the awards were done, we were too. We walked back into the classroom to put our instruments away. I was beyond happy, I felt so elated, the joy filling my body as I all but skipped into the classroom. The entire class was talking, although I could tell it was not about the scholarship. Actually, it was about how they thought they saw a phantom behind the curtains somewhere and was labeling it "The phantom of the auditorium" ((a/n: *glares* They were making fun of Phantom back then. . . luckily, I wasn't obsessed then, because if they did it now I'd smack them over the heads with something. No one disses Phantom without answering to me)). I was surprised at this. This scholarship was so important, why did they all seem to be acting as if it was nothing?  
  
"Kathryn!" I heard my mom's voice from the doorway. I put the last of my oboe away and ran, slamming into my mom and giving her a hug. "I won! I won!" I said excitedly. "See?" I held the scholarship up to my mom's eyes, and she took it, smiling at me. My dad was smiling, too. It seemed for the first time ((And perhaps the last?)) that they were proud of me for my accomplishment in music. Of course, I didn't notice this, I was too happy, thinking about the fact that I won!  
  
We drove home, my mom analyzing the scholarship (and no doubt deciding how much she had to pay now for the rest of the tuition) and both of them beaming congratulations at me. I was the happiest person, right now, not a care in the world, and at this moment I felt that as long as I had my oboe, anything in the world was possible.  
  
((A/n: Woo! Finally finished that chapter! Took me long enough, I know. Now that school's finally out (*people run around my living room throwing confetti*) I can actually have time to write! Gasp! Well, at least my freshman year in high school has finished. It was a very confusing year, but now it's. . . OVER! Woo! And Summer Band School for me this year starts next week, I can't wait. Although they haven't given me my schedule yet, and they'd better soon. And I want to know the results of my NJYS tryouts, I haven't gotten those back, and I've been walking on glass ever since the tryouts. Oh well, hope y'all like the story so far, and I'll continue to write)) 


	5. Hey, chapter five!

((A/n: Thanks for all the reviews so far. . . this still remains my most reviewed story, so it is always welcome. Love you all, you are great chaps!))  
  
After I got the scholarship, school ended and I indeed went to summer band school. It was quite enjoyable, actually. Band was fun (I was in intermediate band already. . . they didn't put me in beginner's just because this was my first time!) and we played cool songs (Except for the song "In The Mood" which the entire band was obsessed with, and played it all the time, and to this day I still can't stand that song), especially the song "Fallbrook March" which sounded really cool and I loved. The teacher there was okay, although she always said I was flat ("You're Bb's! They are flat, bring it up!" She'd often say. Although I always wondered about that-aren't Bb's supposed to be flat? And if your Bb is flat, then is it an A?) and was a bit (heh. . . a bit. . . that's being nice) strange. But she was a bassoon player, and I later learned that bassoon players have a reputation for being strange.  
  
But otherwise, summer band school was fun. With the cool songs and the new stuff I learned, I was moving up in the oboe world.  
  
When I entered 5th grade, I was ready. I had advanced over the summer, and became a better player than I had been last year. And things had changed in the band, too, now that I was in the "advanced" 5th grade band officially. There were new members, lots of returning old members, and even two additions to my own oboe section. One of them didn't last very long; in fact, he dropped the oboe after about two months. The second guy, Harold, stuck with it. He was fairly enthusiastic about it. He seemed like he was going to stay with it (although in the end, he quit after 7th grade). He was okay at it.  
  
5th grade band went by fairly quickly. Nothing remarkable happened, aside from the fact that when we had 5th grade graduation practice (one of the most boring things on earth) I got out of it because of band or lessons or whatever. Now that was good.  
  
But the good thing, the really good thing, didn't come until the very end of 5th grade. It was May, and things were winding to a close. Pent up energy from the year was close to being released, and since we 5th graders only had two months to go before we were out of here, everyone was very hyper (to say the least). But it was one day in band that the announcement came.  
  
"At the end of this month, as you know, the choir will be singing 'Simple Gifts' at the high school." She began. That was true. . . our choir was singing there. They were going to be singing that song while the New Jersey Symphony Orchestra played the song. Now that was exciting. . . a real symphony! I wasn't going to be singing in the choir, because I figured the band would play it.  
  
"No, the entire band won't be playing it together." Mrs. B continued, almost like she read my thoughts. "Instead, I shall be selecting the best player from each section, and they. . ." she paused for dramatic effect, "They will be playing with the symphony."  
  
I drew in a sharp breath. Could you imagine that! Playing with an actual advanced symphony! It was a dream come true! I hoped she'd chose me over Harold, because I was more experienced and I wanted to be professional someday. I would be professional, too. . . as long as I had my oboe and my working reeds, nothing could come between me.  
  
"At each of your lessons, I shall select the person who will be playing. You will get a rehearsal schedule then, and in due course all the information you'll be needing about this performance with the symphony, Oh, and the music, too, which you'll need to have memorized." She added.  
  
I turned around and grinned at my trumpet friend. Hopefully we'd both be chosen. . . how cool would that be? Then we could play together!  
  
I could hardly concentrate for the rest of band.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
It was a week later that she decided to tell everyone. I was at lessons with Harold and the other guy (who was going to quit a week later, but I didn't know that) when she looked us over and made us play a few things. Finally, she turned to me and said,  
  
"Kathryn, how would you like to play with the Symphony?"  
  
Was she asking me? Really asking me? The other guy looked bored, Harold looked confused.  
  
"Y-yes," I stammered. "I'd love to. Are you choosing me?" I asked in the unsubtle way of younger kids.  
  
"Yes." She said with a smile. "Yes, I am choosing you. But only if you want to. . . if you don't, I'm sure Harold wouldn't mind doing it. Would you?"  
  
"Nah." Replied Harold with a shrug. "I'm just in it for the fun."  
  
~Typical boy,~ I thought dryly. See, even then I knew how stupid boys were.  
  
"I want to!" I exclaimed hurriedly. "I'd love to play with them, Mrs. B!" my enthusiasm was taking me over then. It was almost as if I could feel the music already. "When do we start?"  
  
She laughed and reached into her bag. She dug around a bit before pulling out two sheets of music, and handed it to me. 'Simple Gifts-oboe' it read on the top. She handed it to me. "The performance is at the end of May," She said. "And you'll have to have this memorized."  
  
"No problem!" I replied. Memorizing this wouldn't be a problem. It was a short piece, and not that hard.  
  
And with that, I was in. Just like that. . . it was that easy. I was chosen for the oboe. I was not alone. . . from the other instrument groups came Grace the Clarinetist, Stephen the Saxophone player, Shawn the Trumpet player, Samantha the Flutist, and. . . well, and me. That was our group.  
  
Each week, aside from band and our regular lessons, the five of us would get together in the band room during recess and practice the song together. We soon had it memorized, because the other people she had chosen were good players. And we sounded pretty good (to my ears, at least).  
  
The time drew nearer every day. I grew more excited as the time wore on. . . this was such an amazing thing! My parents were happy with it, of course, but not nearly as happy I was. As a 5th grader, I believed that I could do anything I wanted. And I wanted to be a musician someday-and this playing with the symphony, even if it was just one song, could help me on my way to that goal ((a/n: *sings* Then I was young, and unafraid. . . and dreams were made, and used, and wasted. . .)).  
  
Eventually, the day came. I was all hyper and ready when it came, too. I had painted my nails so they looked shiny and pretty when I played, I had layed out a nice dress, and heck, I even fixed my hair (gasp!). My reed was working (*bigger gasp*), "Simple Gifts" was memorized, and I was all set and ready to go.  
  
I came into school that morning wearing my dress and my pretty hair, holding my oboe and grinning ear to ear. Everyone was looking at me for wearing a dress (even then, I was not one to dress girly), but hey, I didn't care.  
  
I don't remember any of my school lessons for that day. But at 11:30 when the announcement came on the intercom, "All 5th graders who are going to participate in the playing with the New Jersey Symphony Orchestra at the high school, report to the band room at this time." I jumped out of my seat instantly, grabbed my oboe, and all but ran out of the classroom. I think the teacher called after me something, but I didn't remember it.  
  
I met up with Grace and Samantha, who were just coming out of the other classroom. "Hi!" I called excitedly to them. "Excited about today? I am!"  
  
Grace looked placidly at me. She was a very calm girl with a high grade point average, and not one to get easily excited. "Yes, I'm greatly looking forward to it." She replied. She also liked to talk fancy, like an adult. "It's quite exciting."  
  
Samantha rolled her eyes. "We get out of class, Grace! How cool is that?"  
  
I sighed. My excitement on playing was lost with these two. Grace was never excited about anything, and Samantha was the typical person who was in band so she could get out of class sometimes. On the way up, we met up with Stephen, who was along the same lines as Grace, and Shawn, who was a trumpet player and therefore thought it was his job to act like a total idiot. As we walked up to the band room, he kept leaping in front of us and pulling faces. Grace and Stephen just sighed, Samantha rolled her eyes but tossed her hair at him, and I rolled my eyes in annoyance. Samantha was only a 5th grader, but the idea of boys already appealed to her.  
  
I was the first to enter the band room, the others following behind me. Mrs. B was saying something to the choir director when we came in. "Speaking of our symphony kids," she said, turning to us. "I was just telling Mrs. F the choir director how good a job you are all doing. I'm proud of you for doing this. I know memorizing music and getting up to play in front of all those people is scary."  
  
"'S nothing." Replied Grace with a shrug. Stephen shrugged as well. Samantha grinned and tossed her hair again, now just for the act of being girly. And Shawn let out a raspberry (in which Mrs. B looked at him disapprovingly).  
  
"Alright," Mrs. B said, shooting another look at Shawn. "We're going to warm up, and then head downstairs to wait for the buses." She nodded and indicated for us to set up.  
  
I sat between Samantha and Grace and took out my oboe, squeaking loudly on the reed. Grace looked at me, and Samantha giggled.  
  
We played through the song once with music and twice without, to make sure we memorized it. Then, at around 12:15 or so, Mrs. B ushered us all downstairs to wait.  
  
We waited by the entrance of the school on the steps. Stephen sat on his saxophone case, as did Shawn with his trumpet.  
  
"So here we go, huh?" Stephen said. "Ready?"  
  
"Yes!" I chimed. "I can't wait, I've always wanted to do this. I want to play professional, so I can do this and then I'll be on my way!"  
  
"I'm going to be a mathematician," replied Stephen with a shrug. "But it's going to be fun, I think." ((a/n: This was my first experience playing with one of THEM, but I didn't know what THEM was back then))  
  
"Yeah." Samantha added. "And don't forget, we get out of class!"  
  
I rolled my eyes at Samantha. Was that all this was about for her? Getting out of class? For me, this was so much more. . . it was an experience that I know I'd never forget. And here she had the honor of being chosen, and all she wanted was to get out of class. I'd rather they have chosen Livvy, another flutist, who was good and really nice.  
  
We started talking, not just about the symphony but about random other stuff, until the honk of the buses interrupted us. "It's the buses!" I shouted, leaping up from my spot on the floor. "Let's go!"  
  
"Calm down!" Samantha shouted at me as I ran ahead already. The others followed me outside, and there was Mrs. B waiting by the buses.  
  
She directed us into the buses. I got into a window seat and put my oboe next to me, sitting by myself. Everyone else got seated. We had to wait about 10 minutes for the choir (slow choir!) to get in with us. Then, finally, we were off!  
  
20 minutes later we arrived at the high school. The choir got out first and went into the auditorium. We had to sit outside and wait until we were called in. We waited for another 20 minutes outside before we heard, "Band, come in!"  
  
We ran inside, and they pointed for us to sit in the orchestra pit. ~Yay!~ I thought, sitting in a chair there next to Samantha. I grinned, looking around the high school orchestra pit. I even liked the sound of the words. Orchestra pit! I said the words a few more times, enjoying the way they sounded. . . orchestra pit!  
  
I took my oboe out and prepared. The choir was already up, and behind them. . .  
  
There it was! Set up in a semicircle was the New Jersey Symphony Orchestra. I saw them, and felt my heart rise in my chest. Seeing that symphony, just for a second, made me realize how much I wanted to be here. There was the oboist, too!  
  
In that moment, I suddenly felt a sense of rightness. Seeing that symphony up there, and knowing soon I'd be joining them, something just clicked. In that instant, I realized that I wanted to be up there forever. . . not just with the orchestra, but part of the orchestra. I wanted to be part of them, to play as one with them forever. This is what I wanted to do, and I'd achieve that, too. No matter what it took, I'd be up there someday, having other little oboists admire me like I admired them. I was going to be a professional oboist someday, and it was that moment I realized that. If I did nothing else in my life, I would do that. . . I'd be an orchestra oboist. That is my place in life, that is what I was going to do. And for sure I'd do it.  
  
"Kathryn? What ~are~ you doing?" I jerked my head away from the orchestra to see Grace looking at me. "Gawking at the orchestra, I see?" She said.  
  
I blushed, lowering my head. "Just looking." I murmured. But I didn't look up again.  
  
Finally, after what seemed like hours of waiting, the announcement came: "Any students in the local choir and elementary school bands who are participating in the song "Simple Gifts", please come up to the stage now."  
  
"That's us! That's us!" I cried, leaping up from my chair with my oboe at hand. I stuck the reed carelessly in my mouth, ignoring another disapproving look from Grace as we all went onto the stage. I ran through the music in my head once more, glad to see I had it all down. The only trouble I'd probably have was with the low C, because for some reason I always squeaked on that.  
  
I was put between Samantha and a flutist from another school on the risers. I smiled brightly at both of them, though Samantha ignored me, but the other flutist returned my smile. Mrs. B gave us all encouraging smiles and whispered, "Good luck!" in our ears as we got up.  
  
I stood there now, taking the reed out of my mouth and putting it in my oboe (carefully). The symphony conductor man got up and said a few words (though I don't think I was paying attention at all. . . I don't remember a single thing he said). Then he turned to us, brought his baton up. I raised the oboe to my lips. . .  
  
And we played.  
  
I don't remember hearing the choir sing, though I know they did. I don't remember what the flute player next to me was doing when she stopped, or what the conductor was conducting, or the fact that my mom had stood up in the back of the room with a camera. All I remember is that it was that day, of all days, in which I finally found where I belonged.  
  
Up here on that orchestra, even though I was not sitting with them, I played like I never played before. I felt a part of something for the first time in my oboey life. ~This~ was what I had to do, ~this~ was what I was supposed to do.  
  
This was where I belonged.  
  
As the final measure of the music swirled around me, I let the probably slightly stupid smile fall from my face ((though it's nowhere near the stupid grin I get on my face after I see "Phantom". . . now that's a stupid grin. I look like I'm more empty headed than the football players at my school.)). Looking around, I saw that some of the other people looked tired, bored even, like they didn't want to be here. I didn't understand why they didn't, this was the greatest thing in the world. I felt light, elated, and floating. . . this was my world. The world of music, of orchestras, of my oboe.  
  
~Then I was young, and unafraid. . . and dreams were made, and used, and wasted. . . there was no ransom to be paid, no song unsung, no wine untasted. . .~  
  
And for now, there was only that. 


	6. GUESS WHAT it's chapter six!

((I have no idea what those symbols were. For some reason, I couldn't get rid of them no matter what, no matter how many times I rewrote that chapter. I'm glad you guys managed to make sense of that chapter through all the weird symbols. I have no idea how they got there or how to get rid of them. Sorry about that!  
  
Glad you all like this story and want me to continue. I'd better write as much as I can before marching band season starts again, once it does, don't be expecting lots of updates. My evil colorguard instructor will keep us after school every day for practice, knowing her))  
  
Middle school. Back then, to my elementary school self, the thought of "Middle school" sent shivers of horror down my spine. Lockers, long hallways, moving around for every class, being in a school full of lots of different people I've never met before, and not having the same people in each class. I was most definitely scared. A lot of my friends were looking forward to the freedom that middle school gave you. That part was okay. . . the fact that you'd have different people in each class appealed towards me. It meant if one of my friends wasn't in my first class, she might be in another class.  
  
But no matter what, I was still afraid of entering middle school. Deathly afraid.  
  
It was now my first day of middle school. My mom had put me in this pretty little dress and combed my hair all up so I looked nice. Though I didn't know how long that would last, since now I had to wait at the bus stop and heard horror stories about the bus stop. I was mortally afraid I'd miss the bus and be late to my first day of middle school. And that would be scary.  
  
My mom had to all but shove me out the door and drag me down the street when the time came. I was clutching my oboe case with white knuckles, for I had band sixth period. My teacher was a "Mr. Jameson", I had no idea who he was. But the oboe seemed to be the only comfort I had as I headed down to that bus stop, and into that cold, unfeeling world that was middle school.  
  
As it turned out, I was not late to middle school. I got on the bus and sat alone, too afraid to sit next to anyone and feeling very much like a first year at Hogwarts. The first five periods went by, and they weren't that bad. My best friend was in two classes with me and I was very happy for that. I didn't get that lost because of orientation a few days prior to this, and when I was late the teacher just looked at me sympathetically, understanding I was a lost and scared sixth grader. Though the sound of the bell ringing while I was still in the hallway only sent more thrills of terror.  
  
Now, finally, came sixth period. I greatly looked forward to hopefully losing myself in the music, which would get my mind off how scared and confused I was. I was hoping, that just for forty minutes, the middle school fear would be forgotten.  
  
As I entered the band room, I looked around. It was so different from my elementary school band room. This one was larger, and amazingly cluttered. There were chairs strewn everywhere, candy wrappers and empty water bottles littered the floor, posters were hanging on the walls, some hanging off, and people were everywhere. And these people weren't sitting in their assigned chair, waiting for orders-they were strewn and draped over chairs (some over more than one chair) and lounging as carelessly as if it was the middle of the summer.  
  
They were also shouting. Calling and yelling to each other from across the room, throwing things, the ones whom I recognized as "the populars" were whispering and giggling about some unknown secret, and the boys were making rowdy catcalls and acting like jerks.  
  
And I was the only one in the entire band room with my instrument.  
  
I entered very slowly, looking around to make sure that I didn't get hit in the head by a piece of balled up paper or run into by a boy running to catch it. I sat by my best friend over in the corner, she was looking just as frightened as I was. She didn't have her instrument, but that was because it was a trumpet and very clumsy.  
  
I looked to the front of the room to see where the band director was. He was, instead of sitting primly on the seat with a baton like Mrs. B, was leaning back in the chair grinning. He was a lot younger than Mrs. B. His hair was spiked in the typical style of that time, and he had this grin on his face that said, "I don't care about what's going on here-you boys can all act like jerks, I don't mind!"  
  
Me and my friend exchanged looks. This was nothing like band I knew before, and it was only the first day.  
  
Finally, about fifteen minutes later, the band director sat up. "Hey, people of the band room," He said lazily. "Come on, shut up for now." Everyone looked up, only listening to him with half their attention.  
  
"Alright. This year in band we're going to be playing all sorts of music. We're mostly going to play marches though, because I'm in the HIGH SCHOOL MARCHING BAND! You all should join it, it's the best! Now, sit down and I'm going to pass out the things for you to fill out what kind of instrument you play. Hand them in today, or tomorrow, whatever." He shrugged and got the papers, passing them out.  
  
I blinked, staring up at the front in bewilderment. Marching band? I hadn't signed up for marching band, I had signed up to be in BAND! And why wasn't this guy trying to keep everyone under control? Mrs. B always used to. She'd never tolerate behavior like this.  
  
A person in front of me threw a few papers at me. They flew all around, showering me and my best friend as we tried to make order of it. We finally took two papers, and then the people around us started shouting, "Yo! Why ain't you passin' the papers? Come on, man, don't be stupid!" I turned around and gave them the fiercest glare I could.  
  
I filled out the sheet, trying hard to convey my seriousness of music in. There wasn't a lot of room to, most of the questions were involving our schedule. I sighed and handed it in at the end of the period, having to shove through many rowdy kids to get it to the band director. He took it from me and looked down at me, trying to feign interest, it seemed.  
  
"What's your name?" he asked, taking my sheet and throwing it in a box over his shoulder.  
  
"Kathryn," I answered obediently.  
  
"Instrument?"  
  
"Oboe."  
  
He looked at me when I said that. I mean, he actually focused on my face and seemed to see me when I said that. "Oboe, huh?" He said. "You're the first I've had in like. . . like. . . years." He said finally.  
  
"I see." I replied, still standing in front of him.  
  
He shrugged. "Whatever."  
  
Just then, the bell rang. I ran (shoved my way) back to where me and my best friend was, taking my book bag and my oboe. And, for the first time in my life, I was happy to get out of band class.  
  
* * *  
  
I went back to band the next day, and every day after that, week after week. When we started playing, I held hope that we'd be playing good stuff, hard stuff, not the easy pieces in elementary school.  
  
But my hope was soon deflated when Mr. Jameson handed out not classical pieces, like I hoped, but instead pieces like "Sesame Street" and "The Thunderer" in which I had exactly twenty measures that I played in the entire piece. I stared down at the piece of music, which I probably could have played when I started out two years ago. My face fell when I looked at the simple score, easy time signature, and key signature. Where were the hard pieces I had hoped for?  
  
Not in this band.  
  
I had thought that as time moved on, the band would become more music oriented than. . . well. . . ignorant. But Mr. Jameson didn't care, and what's more, the rest of the band didn't care. They were obviously there to have an easy period away from class. And Mr. Jameson could tell this, and evidently didn't want to work them too hard.  
  
I sighed and took out my music, putting it on the music stand in front of me, when I heard a trumpet player call behind me,  
  
"Hey, look at the oboe player!"  
  
Almost immediately, six trumpets were crowded around me. All boys, all jerks.  
  
"What do you want?" I asked, annoyed. They were boys, and the loud obnoxious kind. . . the kind I'd sooner smack with my math book than look at.  
  
"You're an oboe player." One of them said.  
  
"You just noticed," I replied sarcastically.  
  
"You have a funny reed." Said another.  
  
"And you don't have reeds." I replied, doing my best to ignore them. Perhaps if they were ignored, they would go away. Trumpet players in elementary school, I knew, would never be purposefully obnoxious like this.  
  
"Yeah, well, can we have one of yours then?" Said a different one, his hand darting over my shoulder as if to grab the reed out of my oboe.  
  
"Why?" I asked, lowering my oboe so the reed was out of the curious trumpeter's reach.  
  
"'Cuz, we want one. They're weird."  
  
"Well, then go and buy one." This was getting annoying.  
  
"We don't want to."  
  
"Too bad." I hunched over to hide the reed from their prying eyes.  
  
"Well. . . we want one!" With that, one of the trumpet players shoved the music off my stand.  
  
"Hey!" I shouted, and bent over to pick it up. Ugh, the music was strewn all over the floor. I held my oboe between my knees as I tried and got the music together.  
  
At that point, a trumpet player leaped forward and snatched the oboe. "Hehe, lookit, I got the oboe!" He said, in that typical dull boy voice that made it sound like a slug could rival it in intelligence.  
  
I stood up immediately then. Touching my music was fine, but NO ONE touches the oboe without my permission!  
  
"Give that back, THIS INSTANT!" I shouted, lunging for the trumpet player with my oboe.  
  
He laughed dully. "No!" He said, and snatched the reed-the good reed, mind you, it wasn't broken-out of the oboe. "Lookit, guys, I got one of them reeds!"  
  
They all laughed. The one with my oboe threw the oboe back to me, and I caught it, just barely. "Give me my reed!" I ordered. They just laughed.  
  
"Nah, I think we'll keep it." He said. Now this made me royally mad. I stood up on the chair and screeched,  
  
"GIVE ME MY REED BACK!"  
  
It had no affect. They just laughed, the flutists glanced back to see what was happening, and then turned away. Mr. Jameson? Didn't even look up.  
  
"Mr. Jameson!" I called. He looked up this time. "He took my reed!" I pointed to the trumpet player with my reed. The trumpet player blinked.  
  
"I dunno what she's talking about," He said. "I dun have her reed."  
  
Mr. Jameson sighed. "He said he doesn't have it, Kathryn, just sit back down." And with that, he promptly turned away and ignored me. The trumpet player, with my good reed, walked away laughing with his buddies.  
  
I sat down in my chair, clutching my oboe, my face burning with anger and humiliation. They had stolen my reed, flat out stolen it, and Mr. Jameson had let them get away with it. Why? Because they were trumpet players, and he ~loved~ trumpet players. I held my head down, and a few tears dropped into my lap. How could he do this? How could they do this? I had done nothing to them-nothing!  
  
When the bell rang that day, and I left the band room, I left it fast. I left it thinking I never wanted to return again, ever.  
  
Ever.  
  
* * *  
  
Months passed, and things didn't improve. Now I hated the trumpet players ((a/n: And I still do. . .this incident started my hatred for trumpets, and it continues through to this day)) and even the stuck up snotty popular flutists. I hated Mr. Jameson who continued not giving a crap the entire year, not caring about anything. And the time came where I even hated band.  
  
Why? I thought one day. Why do I hate band so much, when I used to love it? Where was my love for the music? It was so strong in me, and now it was extinguished to a weak and dying flame. What had threw the water on that fire, that burning musical passion I had? Was it Mr. Jameson, who didn't care from the day he listlessly handed out the music to the days where he just cancelled band altogether? Was it the day the trumpets stole my reed, and went completely unnoticed? Was it the day that I realized I wasn't going to get any piece of music where I'd actually ~play~?  
  
Whatever it was, my music was gone. That sense of music I had was gone, vanished. Suddenly I no longer wanted to be a musician, in fact, I no longer cared about music anymore. When the end of the year came and the time for us to make our schedules, I dropped band. I didn't want to take band next year. After all, what was the point of band? We never did anything. I never played.  
  
And most of all. . .I no longer cared about playing.  
  
It was that year, my first year in middle school, that I lost my music, lost my dream, and lost my ambition in a shadow of carelessness started by Mr. Jameson. It would be years until I got it back again.  
  
((That's all for now, chaps. . .more to come, when I get around to writing it, I'm so lazy)) 


	7. mmmm fresh chapter seven

((Hey guys. . .sorry for the severe lack of updating! It's all stemmed from marching band and an evil colorguard instructor and AP US History. But. . .I am going to keep writing, fear not, my chaps!))  
  
I sat in choir once more, bored out of my mind. It was the end of the day, and practically the end of my seventh grade year. Thankfully, that year was almost over. . .I was ready to dance. It was such a long, horrible year, and things really were bad. But obviously I'm not going into detail because this is an oboe story.  
  
My choir teacher, Mrs. Calvin, was giving us another lecture about our high school career (even though we weren't even in eighth grade yet) and how we should choose our schedules for next year. I wasn't listening, because she had the tendency to ramble. I was burying my head in my copy of "The Last Unicorn" that my friend had given me the day before. It wasn't until I heard my name called that I came out of my reading.  
  
"Kathryn? You play the oboe?" I looked up to see Mrs. Calvin looking at me, holding a piece of paper. In the beginning of the year, she wanted us to write down if we played any instruments. And it seemed that it took her until now to look over those papers.  
  
"Yes." I replied.  
  
"Are you in band this year?"  
  
"No."  
  
Mrs. Calvin looked at me. "Well, I think it would be good for you to go back into it next year. We have like, no oboe players. Mr. Jameson always complains to me about that."  
  
I snorted inwardly. Yeah, Mr. Jameson really needed oboists, alright. The day he actually needed oboes would be the day that I turn into an angry disco queen who loves to laugh at dinosaurs ((a/n: long story, LOL Bianca!)). But for some reason, I decided to listen to Mrs. Calvin (for the first time, and also for the last time, because all she did in my 8th grade year was ramble on all year long about how important your freshman year schedule would be for the rest of your life) and heck, why not, when the time came, I signed up to take band the next year. Well, it wasn't only Mrs. Calvin.it was my friends Nelly and Arden.they were both flutists, and were in band. And Nelly said she'd drag me into band next year.  
  
So I did just that.I signed up for band, just for the heck of it. Just to make Nelly and Arden happy. And so.that's how it started.once more.  
  
*  
  
It was the first day of my 8th grade year. I came into the band room for the first time in a long time, finding a spot in the back, because I couldn't find Nelly or Arden. I felt kind of lost. . .like someone who comes back to their home twenty years later and finds that someone changed the landscape or something. So I sat in the back, and took a moment to look over my marching band schedule (that year, due to the encouraging of several of my other friends and an amazing teacher, I joined marching band. Which was insane, and interesting, and one of the biggest changes of my life, but that's a whole other story) before pulling out a book and reading it. Mr. Jameson made a speech, but I ignored him, because he never said anything important anyway.  
  
We started playing by the end of the week. Mr. Jameson, as usual, didn't care where I went. But this time, instead of sitting with the clarinets like I did last time, I sat in with the flutes. I sat next to Nelly, and Arden was next to her. We whispered and giggled all the time he was passing out music.  
  
And the trumpets? Well, that year, they didn't do anything. I still hated them, though. All they did was get millions of solos and Mr. Jameson adored them.  
  
The rest of the year passed without much notice. We played, and half the time we didn't. Sometimes, Mr. Jameson would just not have us play at all, in which me, Nelly, and Arden would throw paper balls and rubber bands at people who annoyed us, or Arden would tease me about this male friend of mine, or we would do our English homework together. I found that I didn't hate Mr. Jameson as much anymore, but the only reason for that was because he was in marching band and so was I.  
  
But other than that, it was very boring. He didn't care whether you played or not, no one ever came to lessons, and he only cared about the trumpets anyway. But that didn't bother me that year. I was too busy talking and laughing with Nelly and Arden, and I didn't really care much about my playing, anyway. After all, it was just oboe playing. It didn't matter anymore. . .it was just for fun.  
  
When the end of the year came, it was time to plan out our freshman year schedules. There was a lot of chaos ((a/n: TO ORDER!! Sorry, it's still a habit for me. . .)) when that came about. No one knew what classes they were going to take, and likewise, everyone was freaking out because they were going to be in high school soon. Then. . .then it was time to pick a music course.  
  
It was between choir and band, because I took both that year. But. . .for some reason, I felt compelled to take band. I don't know what force on earth made me decide to take band, but it did, and "concert band" was therefore placed on my freshman year schedule. At the time, it didn't seem like anything major. . .it was just band, and I was only taking it for the same reason this year. . .maybe Nelly or Arden would be in my band next year.  
  
Or maybe, something interesting would happen.  
  
((oooh, short chapter. . .this was kind of a transition chapter, because absolutely nothing happened in 8th grade. . .now I need inspiration to continue this story, because I really should. . .you'll see more, chaps, don't worry)) 


	8. oh yeah chapter eight

((Hey guys! Glad that you're still interested!  
  
Tenorchick-I am actually in the process of writing stories based on my time in marching band. I've written my first and second year, and I'm writing my third year right now. I'm not putting them up on fanfiction, but I intend on getting them published someday!  
  
The Omniscient Bookseller-YAY for guard/oboist people! I really did want to be in marching band, but couldn't march with an oboe so of course I joined guard. My friend is also a guard oboist. . . it's really funny, because when I was in elementary school I taught her some oboe and then last year I taught her colorguard, and this year she joined and we're oboe buddies and guard buddies. Oboists WILL rule the world, we'll show those trumpets! Yay for guard people and oboe people!))  
  
Thus it began. On the first day of high school, I was completely scared and nervous and worried that I wasn't going to find my classes. And I had just been late for math, and that completely freaked me out. All in all, I was your typical scared freshman who was worried about having their head stuffed into a toilet by the upperclassmen ((a/n: I learned later, now that I am an upperclassman, that they really couldn't be bothered with those little freshmen anyway)). I was relieved, though, when I went to concert band fifth period. For one thing, I knew it was only band. And secondly, it was the one place in the school that I knew where it was, because of having been in marching band in 8th grade. So I stepped into that band room for the first time as an actual band person.  
  
I sat with my friends Iris and Katie, two flute players that I knew from last year. Nelly and Arden quit flute and decided not to take band this year, so I was the only one of the three of us who stayed. I knew Iris from marching band, and Katie had sort of latched onto me during gym class that morning. We were all talking, and Iris was helping me with my math homework (yes, I got math homework on the first day! How preposterous!) when the band director, Mr. P, came up to talk to us.  
  
"Alright." Mr. P began. "Some of you are freshman, coming in for the first time, and some of you are upperclassmen who are still in this band. Regardless, I have a few things I have to say to you."  
  
I knew from marching band that Mr. P wasn't anything like Mr. Jameson. I could tell by the way he talked and shuffled music on the stand in front of him that he actually cared about this, rather than careless like Mr. Jameson.  
  
"Welcome to concert band!" He said, this time in a friendlier voice. "I'm sure for you freshman, this will hold some surprises to you. Middle school band is fairly easy. . . the music that you had was really simple, and it wasn't a very serious atmosphere. As I've heard, you barely had any discipline and training."  
  
I nodded to myself. Too true.  
  
"This year, my freshmen, that's all going to change."  
  
I blinked. What?  
  
"Concert band, though it's not as hard or professional as wind ensemble, is still a fairly serious band. You are here because you like music and playing your instrument, and want to improve your musicianship skills. Some of you may be here just because you want an easy class that you can get an A in, but you will be surprised that it's not that easy, and this is a class where we don't hang around and do nothing-we play. This is a band for people who are a lot more serious about playing than in middle school. Here, we learn harder music and we even learn some music theory. We are here to prepare you for wind ensemble, the higher band, where you can really train your music skills."  
  
Hmph. This was weird. I had joined because I was careless, and figured hey, I'd get an easy thing to get an A in, like Mr. P mentioned before. I didn't really care about my musicianship, as he called it. He was taking this ~way~ too seriously, in my opinion. Really, Mr. P, it was just a concert band. No one here cared either.  
  
"But if you are taking this just to get out of class, I suggest you think again. This is a real class. It may not be academic, like math or science, but in a way it's just as much of a real class than any of those others. Hopefully, by the end of this year, many of you will be trained well and ready to move on to wind ensemble. If not, you can always try again for next year." He nodded at us. "Tomorrow, I will begin handing out music. Friday, I would like you all to bring your instruments so we can being playing. The other band director, Dr. Mavis, would like to speak to you now." Mr. P waved and left the podium, giving it over to the other band director.  
  
Dr. Mavis, the other guy, came up and started talking. Some of what he said was the same as Mr. P, but mostly he rambled on about the jazz band and how great that was and how you really should join jazz band because it was awesome and would get you so far. I rolled my eyes at that. I was an oboist, what did I have with jazz band? I saw Iris do the same-she was never that big on jazz band, either. "And," Dr. Mavis continued. "There's the subject of lessons. Soon I will have a lesson schedule out, and you will come whenever your group is designated to have lessons. Lessons are a big part of your grade, and if you come to lessons every week and do well, then that'll help your grade, even if all you do in band is sit around and talk with your friends. Well, if you do that in band, you'll probably get a C for class participation. But if you come to lessons every week, hey, you might get a B for the overall grade! That's really all there is to it. Class participation and lessons. Welcome to concert band." And Dr. Mavis left.  
  
Wait, what was going on here? In middle school band, no one cared whether you played or not, or how good you were. All that mattered was that you played during the concert, regardless of your skill. And in middle school, if you came to one lesson in the entire year, Mr. Jameson would automatically give you an A in lessons. And if you came to the concerts, you'd get an A in band. Here, it seemed like they were actually serious. Like, band meant something here, your playing meant something here. That I wasn't used to.  
  
Oh well, I thought, leaning back against my chair and then turning to my friend Iris to talk about the latest book we read. I'd just play and do what I did in Mr. Jameson's band, and surely I'd get an A. After all, with all their talk, this probably wasn't very different. It never is.  
  
Right? 


	9. does a chapter nine dance

((WOW! *mind is boggled at reviews* Sorry for the loooong time without any update...I've been madly crazily incredibly busy with Revolutions and West Side Story that I'm in and all this other stuff. But. . . I'll try to keep it going for all of you!))  
  
As concert band started, it was quite uneventful. I would come in every day, talk to Iris a bit, then we'd play a song here and there. The Christmas songs were really easy. . .in fact, I could play them by the second week, and I was surprised. A few of the other songs were more difficult, and I found that I liked these songs. . . they provided me with a challenge that I hadn't had in a long time.  
  
I went into my first lesson the first time they started kind of cautiously. I remembered what lessons were like with Mr. Jameson, and was worried that it would be like that all over again. I was surprised to find that the person I had for lessons was Mr. P, and I knew him already from marching band. But I told myself not to let that mean anything, because Mr. Jameson was in marching band and that didn't change anything.  
  
"Hello there, Kathryn," Mr. P said when I came in, rather apprehensively. "First lesson, hmm?"  
  
"Yes," I replied.  
  
"Who'd you have for band last year?" He asked as I got my oboe out of the instrument closet and sat down, very lightly and shyly.  
  
"Mr. Jameson," I told him.  
  
"Ah." Mr. P nodded. "What did you think of him? Answer me honestly."  
  
Honestly? You want my honest opinion? No problem. "I thought that he couldn't tell an oboe from a flute, Mr. P." I said. "And that his choice of music was horrible, and he lacked discipline and incentive for his band, and in fact, I almost quit band because of him. I don't even think he knew what an oboe was, except he had one in his band and it sat next to the flutes." Yeah, that was the honest truth, I had to give it to him.  
  
But surprisingly, I saw a small smile form on Mr. P's face. Mr. P was the kind of person who had really funny facial expressions. When he looked sad, he looked like a puppy after you yelled at it for chewing on your slippers and it walked away with its tail between its legs. When he was happy, he looked like a happy puppy. We in marching band decided that if Mr. P was any animal (because almost everyone looks like an animal of some kind), he was a puppy, and a pug puppy to be specific. His expressions were hilarious. So when he smirked, I couldn't help but smile, because that's just the way Mr. P is.  
  
"Yeah," Mr. P said. "We have Mr. I for marching band this year instead, but you already know that. Alright, so let's hear what you can do. Play a few scales for me." He dictated the scales for me to play and I played them all fine. Then we went over some band music, and I had a little trouble with the other band director's songs and we went over that, too.  
  
When I left the lesson that day, I realized that I was actually feeling this weird happiness. It was kind of like the happiness I got after seeing "Phantom of the Opera", only I wasn't grinning stupidly and randomly bursting into song. But that weird happiness was there, and I had no idea why. I'd barely played my oboe with any feeling for the past few years, so why would this be any different? It was just a random lesson, anyway.  
  
Yeah. Just a random lesson.  
  
* * *  
  
As the first few weeks of concert band progressed, things went from boringly average to absolutely smashing. Amazing victories in marching band made my heart soar; we were state champions this year. I remember walking into band that day and all the marching band people were jumping around hugging each other, and me, Iris, and this other piccolo girl Sharon were shrieking about how we won state championships. Mr. P didn't even bother to try and control a band room full of happy marching band people that day.  
  
But things were very happy. The more I played in band, the more I liked it. The trumpet players behind me didn't give a flying Valjean (all Les Mis fans please pardon the expression) about my reeds, they were too busy in their own section, these concert band trumpets, and reveling in the spotlight that they still had. But the important thing was, they left me alone.  
  
And I played, and when I played it was different. I got music that was actually for oboe, Mr. P would say "alright, flutes, clarinets, and oboe at measure 11" and things like that, and I was actually not pushed to the side anymore. I had distinct parts that I played with the flutes that could be heard. And every week I'd go for a lesson with Mr. P and those were great. He'd encourage me and we'd do the music and I was actually understanding it and liking it.  
  
Mr. P thought I was good. He told me that I was a very good oboe player, one of the better ones, and he really thought I had talent in this area. This was the first time someone told me this since Mrs. B back in elementary school! It was thrilling and uplifting.  
  
And in those few weeks when I was at concert band, mixed with the joys of marching band, the praises of Mr. P, and the music where I actually played (and my mad Phantom of the Opera obsession). . . well, I believe that I had gotten it back. My love for music seemed to hit me like the colorguard flags I spun during marching band. For so long I had lost that love of music I had once, but now I had gotten it back.  
  
And in those glorious days before the Christmas concert, I was happy, because I had gotten back what I had lost, and I have loved once again. 


	10. finally a new chapter!

((A/n: Wow, I'm slow at updating, aren't I? Very busy I am. But here I go...I'm going to see if I can get started with this story again))

Up until then, I had been using an oboe that went by the name of Frederick, or Fred. Fred was the oboe I had been using since I started way back in fourth grade. Fred was a good oboe, but he was often flat and sometimes his notes wouldn't work. And not to mention that sometimes only his high notes would work and nothing else would.

The affair between Chandler and myself started in October of that year. One day, I went into the instrument closet in search of my own oboe. However, I couldn't find him, which was extremely annoying. I pawed through the abundance of flutes, and pushes aside a mound of clarinets. It was then I spotted a case. . . one that I hadn't noticed before.

I knew at the outright that it wasn't a clarinet case. Clarinet cases have this distinct shape and feel. . . this wasn't a clarinet case. I pulled it in front of me and opened it. . . and indeed, I was right. Inside this case was an oboe, far different from Fred. It was slimmer somewhat, and it had more keys. I looked at the oboe for a minute, but then spotted Fred. I put the oboe back and replaced it behind the clarinets, making a mental note that if I ever needed an oboe if Fred was in the shop, I could use this one I found.

I thought nothing of it. I just used Fred from then on.

But then about two weeks later, Fred had one of those infamous things he tended to do. . . he refused to play above A flat. Which meant that I'd have to take him to the music shop again for a tune up. And that would leave me oboe-less for several days. . . and that was bad! Because I still had lessons with Mr. P and band! But there was no way I could play with Fred like this.

So I sent Fred off to the music shop, keeping his reeds with me. The next day in band, I remembered that oboe I had found. The random one, buried behind all the clarinets away from all the rest of the band. Hey, I thought, I could use that one.

Going into band I dug the oboe out and walked over to my seat with it. I assembled the oboe, noting with some satisfaction that it had the low B-flat key, which Fred didn't. Then I took one of the reeds, raised it to my lips, and played a regular B-flat.

I was instantly struck by the fact that it sounded about ten times better than Fred did on his best day. I looked at the oboe, running my hands down it, seeing now that it was wooden. . . as opposed to Fred, who was plastic. I had heard that wooden oboes were good. . .

I played in band that day, and by the end of the day, I was amazed by the change. This oboe I had been playing on was fabulous! It played so much smoother than Fred ever did, all the notes worked, and I sounded so much better than ever before. In fact, I sounded so good that I actually couldn't wait to get home and practice! And that hadn't happened in like. . . ever. This new oboe was just. . . it was perfect.

Three days later, I had named the oboe Chandler, after a character in a book that I had read. Chandler. . . that was his name. And oh, how I loved this oboe! It was, I decided, the oboe I was going to play the concert in. And if that went well, I'd use this oboe for every concert after that forever!

I felt bad about abandoning Fred like this. Once I got him back from the music shop, I left him and home and only used him to practice on when Chandler was in school. But the affair had started and there was no way to stop it.

From that day forward, no longer was I just plain Kathryn the oboist. I became Kathryn and Chandler. . . and so it would be so, for a very long time.

The next thing that happened was at lessons in November. I was playing one of the concert band songs, with Chandler, of course. I was playing exceptionally well that day.

"What do you think about wind ensemble?" Mr. P asked me randomly.

I shrugged. "It's good, I guess. . . I hope I get in next year, if that's what you mean." Oh, how I wanted to be in next year! That would be great. . . being in the higher band. It would be a good start on my renewed interest in being an oboist. Professional, that is. I was going to do that now.

"How would you like to play some songs with them at the Christmas concert?"

"_What?"_ I exclaimed, turning to look disbelievingly at Mr. P. "You mean, play with them? Like, now?"

"Of course that's what I mean!" Mr. P waved a hand dismissively. "You're pretty good, you know, definitely good enough to do that. And the songs for the concert aren't that hard. . . I think you could manage it. So what do you say. . . do you want to?"

I couldn't believe I was hearing this. "You really want me to do it?" I asked incredulously. Really. . . was I that good? I didn't think so. I mean, I had horrible teachers through middle school, never took private lessons or anything. But. . . was I really as good as they always told me I was? Or was it just Chandler?

"Yes, I do," Mr. P nodded. "Do you want to?"

Did I want to? What a question! Suddenly I went from being the completely overlooked oboist in middle school to a pretty good oboist in high school, being asked to play with the higher band when I was only two months into my freshman year! I couldn't believe this was happening!

Perhaps it was a work of the Angel of Music. . . in my mad Phantom obsession, I had grown to believe in this spirit that was of inspiration to musicians. Maybe he had a hand in this? Maybe me and Chandler were blessed. . . I didn't know.

"Yeah," I said finally, a grin suffusing my face. "I'd love to do it!"

"Great!" Mr. P said. "I'll get you the music and give it to you, okay?"

"Okay!" I replied.

I left that lesson feeling happier than I did in a long time. This was indeed a new start for me. My first step on the road to becoming a professional oboist. . . which I was just deciding I was going to do. And I was good enough to play with the advanced band.

Freshman year. . . not even three months in, and already all these things were happening.

Kinda made me wonder what the rest of the year was going to be like.


	11. Booya, it's chapter eleven

((This is fun, I forgot how much I liked writing this story. Oboes are such magnificent instruments, aren't they? Love you all reviewers, by the way, you are indeed smashing chaps. And I'm learning the violin now, because I have a mad Phantom obsession, lol. It's cool, but not as cool as the oboe of course!

Ah, everyone should name their instruments. My friend's flute is named Eldira, and my violin which I am just starting to learn is named Evelyn))

It was early December, and the Christmas concert was upon us before I knew it. I had Chandler, and we had been playing...oh, so gloriously playing...for at least a month now. It was funny how close one can get to an inanimate object...our school had this huge fire in the boy's bathroom one day, and we all had to evacuate the building, and I was just _so_ worried about not being able to get to Chandler in time before we were let out. Thankfully I did, and I got him. But it was funny how much of an attachment I had developed to that random oboe I found one day.

But the concert was up and coming, and I was most definitely ready for it. I had come in to the wind ensemble rehearsal one day...it was really nerve wracking, because I was a freshman and of course everyone there was upperclassmen who were giving me that, "OMG you're a freshman!" look. And because the guy I liked...a trumpet player by the name of Tony...he was there.

Yes, it was unfortunate he played the trumpet. But the reason I liked him was because I heard him sing during marching band season...and guys with good voices, like Broadway voices, made me swoon and melt into little puddles on the floor. Call it my obsessive listening to _Phantom of the Opera_ and swooning over Michael Crawford on the soundtrack...that could have started it. But this definitely finished it. And Tony had the best voice I've ever heard of any guy in this school.

It was a shame he happened to play the trumpet.

Oh, I was so nervous playing in front of him! But Lycia, the junior oboist, she was there, so mostly I just blended in with her and was just another oboist. I don't think he noticed me...at least, I hope he didn't. Or I hope he did...it was one or the other. Crushes are so confusing, and considering this was only the third guy I've ever liked, it got confusing and complicated.

But that didn't matter. Right now, the concert was upon us...Chandler and I were going to make our debut! The first real debut I had made since...well, since fifth grade really, when I played with that symphony. All those other years were dead years, filler years, with a horrible band director and idiot trumpet players.

This year, I decided, everything was going to change. Once again I found myself wrapped in that glory that was oboe playing, with that dream I had once back, and it was covering me and I was just starting to realize just how much I always loved this. It was kind of like the song "She was There" from The Scarlet Pimpernel...I had never let this go, this love for oboe playing. And it was back, my dream was back. I...I don't know. I could still be an oboist...

But is that what I wanted?

Yes. It was. Of course it was. There was nothing else in this world I wanted but to be an oboist, but to...

"Hey, Kathryn, come on!" The day of the concert, I was interrupted from another one of those random reveries I had gotten so used to by my friend poking me with her flute. The concert band was going up now, and I was going to play...well, I had to play with them first. I hoped it would be over soon...the music was really easy, and I practically had some of it memorized we played it so much! Not to mention I was so incredibly excited. After the concert band was done, I'd watch them all file out while I'd remain sitting, and the wind ensemble would come in and sit around me...

Oh! Glorious days! This was going to be beyond wonderful! I felt my excitement mounting as we got onto the stage, and I took my place between the clarinets who were fairly normal, and the giggling bass clarinets who seemed to think that wrong notes/the band director/squeaks were the most hilarious things on the face of the earth, and would burst into giggles at least once per period. The lights were out, and I arranged the music on my stand, clutching Chandler with cold fingers.

The lights went on, and Mr. P turned around and acknowledged the audience.

Then we played. We did wonderful, our concert band, even considering the lack of experience we had. I played, and it was splendid. The trumpets were kind of bad during that last song, but, well, that was funny. It was always funny when trumpets messed up.

Then before I knew it that was over, and the concert band was leaving. I remained on as the lights went out for a second time, getting all my wind ensemble music in order. I glanced at Mr. P briefly, and he gave me a reassuring smile. I looked over there...and there they were. There was the wind ensemble...the advanced band. I felt a shiver of apprehension and excitement.

They all got seated, Lycia grinning at me and waving. She set her music next to mine and got everything out. There was a brief lull when the choir sang, and then once more the lights rose...

I was surrounded by unfamiliar faces entirely, and I was the youngest person there, a tiny, insignificant freshman.

But tonight...I was _not_ just tiny and insignificant, though I was still a freshman. I was a freshman who was good enough to play with the best band in the school.

Mr. P raised his arms again, and I brought the reed to my lips.

* * *

And oh, the glory of music and life suffused me! I played as I had never played before, my notes blending and harmonizing with Lycia's. The music was all around me and I was one with it, Chandler and I played in a glorious harmony...oh, take that Mr. Jameson, take that trumpet players and all of you...I was part of this band, this advanced band, and I played so well!

I was on an all-time high as the concert ended. Sweet beauty filled me, a love of music was around me, and I knew at that moment that this wind ensemble would be a place for me...next year, when I was a sophomore and could be in it officially, it would be my place.

And I knew likewise at that moment that this place, in an orchestra, was the one place that I wanted to be for the rest of my life.

((short, yes. But I have to get to play rehearsal...I'm in The Scarlet Pimpernel at the moment, part of the chorus, and yay I have three sung lines in the title song! dances Will write more soon, my chaps. Next chapter I think is going to be kind of long and deep))


	12. muahahah chapter twelve

((Glad you're still reading this! It's all extremely smashing. This chapter is going to be kind of deep and confusing though, because that's the next step of what happened my freshman year))

The thrilling, wonderful idea of being an oboist in an orchestra suddenly filled my days. My mind was completely taken over with that idea...it was the single pinprick of knowledge that buried itself in my head and became part of my identity. Suddenly, this was my world, and I'd never know anything else for my life. I'd be the one to tune the orchestra someday, I'd be playing amongst violins and violas and far away from all those evil loud trumpets who sat behind me. The orchestra would be my home...I would love that place like no other, and I could not wait for the day when it would come.

This dream was beautiful. In my dream, fashioned in the idealistic way of a freshman, I was the first oboist of an orchestra somewhere...they'd all tune to me and I'd have all these fabulously awesome solos...everyone would hear me, they would! And they'd say what a fabulous oboe player I was.

Because, blast it, that's what I was going to be! I was going to be a fabulous oboe player someday! And there'd be somewhere an orchestra for me, and Chandler and I would be so famous and recognized and it would be beautiful.

This dream I fashioned, it was so elaborate, the details so fine that by the time it was fully taking place in my head somewhere around late January, there was even a flautist named Adele who would taunt me about my reeds in the way that flute players would so often do. It was so detailed, that I could even see the sheet music in front of me sometimes...

Of course, that was all by late January, this beautifully fashioned dream. It was so gorgeous and perfect, this dream of mine...nothing in the world would stop me, I thought! Absolutely nothing now! Now that I'd finally decided that this dream that I long harbored was mine and I could rise up and take it!

Then came...

Then came something I entirely forgot about.

This dreadful, horrible, dream-shattering thing was called society. 

Ah yes, society. As soon as this dream was realized, _that_ soon came to tear it down. Society, I soon learned, was cold and unfeeling. They were this world dominated entirely by teachers, businessmen, and politicians. And in my school, I also soon learned, if you had no intention of doing any one of those three things...you were not going to be successful. Musicians? No, musicians didn't have any place in the real world. The real world...you must be a businessman. You must be a teacher. You must be a politician or a math person or something that gives something _useful_ to society. And music, in the eyes of my school and the rest of society, did not fill the category of useful. It was just something frivolous, a pastime and nothing more...

My oboe playing was a pastime. There was no _future_ in it. Society scoffed at me...they scoffed at the idea that I would be an oboe player in an orchestra and get money for it. Society didn't need musicians, and they didn't want them.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

This brought the first round of my freshman year frustrations. I realized this dream...and the world tore it to pieces and showed me what a fake it was, showed me there was no place in this world for musicians anymore. There was only room for those who followed the crowd, for those business and accounting people I saw constantly in al my school days.

Second came my mom.

Yes, my mom. Earlier when I learned the oboe, she was cool with it. Thought it was kind of amusing, having no idea what an oboe was and all. But now? I don't know what happened now, ever since I told her I was serious about being an oboist and wanted to take steps towards being so. Suddenly, her entire aspect changed. Perhaps she didn't think I was serious enough, or perhaps she still wanted to live her dream through me...wanted me to become a scientist or whatever. But she was discouraging my music like I never thought was possible. "You should major in science," She said one day. "You don't practice enough. You're never going to get anywhere with this, you know that?" Oh, she'd say that all the time. Talking about how there was no way I'd get anywhere in life with my oboe, how bad I was at it, constantly berating me and discouraging this newfound dream of mine. She agreed with society, that musicians never got paid and were starving on the streets and living in boxes under bridges or something. 

To hell with society, I wanted to say, even though my freshman mind didn't curse yet. To hell with them all! What was wrong with musicians? Most often, they were more real than any of these other people in the world! Businessmen were all lemmings who followed the crowd, who all went one way just because society dictated it. And there were so many of them, and they were all the same! Musicians were unique, was there something wrong with uniqueness? Or did you have to follow the crowd to get ahead in life?

Yes, that's what it seemed. Go in the same direction and do what everyone else did, because if you didn't, you'd starve and die and have to sell your hair and teeth like Fantine did in Les Miserables except there wouldn't be any illegitimate children involved, but you never know, the way society was it could include that too. The girls in my school were so flamingly _promiscuous_...I mean, we were 14 or 15! And already they were doing such unnamed things that you shouldn't do until you're married? Gah! If that's what society meant, then I wanted nothing to do with it!

Yes, nothing to do with this shallow world. Where musicians were not accepted, where I had this horrible feeling that I'd spend the rest of my life trying to find a place for this little oboist where there probably wasn't one. Where just because I didn't have a boyfriend or want one, I was scoffed on. Where my mom obviously hated this decision of mine to be an oboist, and was definitely trying to dissuade me from this...

Of course, that wasn't going to happen. To hell with society (well, to heck with society, I was a freshman after all)! I _was_ going to be an oboist, I'd be a great one, and someday in the little playbill thingies on Broadway it would say Kathryn and Chandler (I'd put my oboe's name in there, of course!) and I'd play and dammit I'd be there! No matter what my mom said. She couldn't dictate my life for me...I was the one who made the decisions!

But my mom held sway over my life for so long. I was so afraid of doing something that didn't agree with her, especially something as drastic as a career and future for myself...

But it looks like I was going to have to start. I wanted to be an oboist, I honestly could see doing nothing else with the rest of my life than living in an orchestra with my oboe, my reeds, and the music in front of me, surrounding me all the time. That was the only life I wanted...just because my mom didn't want it, it didn't mean that I'd give up my dream this easily! Down with society and it's shallowness, and no longer would I let my mom dictate my life!

Thus began the tumultuous freshman year. My eyes were opened...far too wide. I saw all the negatives of the world, saw how they scorned musicians and I'd have to spend forever searching for a place where I doubt I'd find one. Thus also began this between my mom and I...her, trying to stop and discourage me, and me in my Les Mis obsession boldly proclaiming, "Damn their warnings, damn their lies! They will see the people rise!"

And they _would_. Chandler and I...we'd take the world like a storm, and forget what everyone else thought of us! For I was Kathryn, an oboist...

And no matter what was in this cold, unfeeling light of society...the music would reclaim me once more, and I would return to it. There was nothing in the _world_ that could stop me...I'd see to it.

I'd make a future for Chandler and I...I'd find an orchestra for us...no matter what.

((yeah, I bet this was confusing. I was very confused my freshman year, having all of this stuff chucked at me at once...it was crazy. I'm so glad I'm not a freshman anymore.

Next chapter coming soon, when I have time to write. By the way, if any of you live in New Jersey, come see The Scarlet Pimpernel in November. Yes, I'm advertising. But it's a great show, our Percy is dreamy sigh awesome, and I'm a random chorus member. WOO! And once more, hail to the oboes!))


	13. See, chapter thirteen, I haven't abandon...

((Gah, me and my infamous lack of updates. Let's see, what is my excuse this time? Scarlet Pimpernel, and then after that was over more violin learning, and then school and then just my sheer procrastinating and then a new, professional oboe by the name of Elissa. phew Sorry guys.))

And before I knew it, it was March. My mom was no less liking of my oboe decision, and she often pointed out how pointless it was and how I was going to be living in a box in New York with no money. But as my friend would say in the future that I didn't know yet, "At least you'd be _happy_!" And I would be, even if I had no money. So I tried my best to ignore my mom's words, though it was really hard the way she'd tirade sometimes…

But I was determined not to let that get to me or to Chandler. Chandler repeatedly encouraged me in his own oboey way to continue on and work hard and make it, even if it is just to spite my mom. Because I had a dream, a _real_ dream, and there's no way that someone could force me out of it. We will go on, Chandler would say. And someday we'll find an orchestra and be the greatest oboe and oboist team the world has ever seen. Your mother cannot take that from us! He'd say, and I'd listen, because his oboey words were all I had. My dad said nothing, and my friends? Right now it wasn't in their interest at all. My closest friend was so enamored by her first boyfriend that she had no time thinking of anything of myself. And my other friends really didn't understand. So all I had were the words of a student oboe.

The first time a brief glimpse of a future was showed to us was one day in band when I least expected it. I sat down and was trying to do my English homework when a piece was handed out to all of us…the Lord of the Rings Fellowship music, music from the movie. I glanced at it briefly before returning to my English homework. The bass clarinets next to me let out a loud series of giggles (but that was no surprise…the bass clarinets giggled at everything. Wrong notes, laughter. Band director stands up, laughter. So it's no surprise that a random piece would make them laugh). The trumpets behind me started practicing and being loud and annoying (did I ever mention how annoying trumpets were? Loud, arrogant, idiots who took all my solos…)

"Alright you guys, come on!" Mr. P shouted. "Let's do this piece from the beginning, then!"

I took my reed and stuck it in Chandler, bringing the reed to my lips as we did the little warm ups and then began the piece. It was really fast, and what a surprise, started with a trumpet solo. You know, someday it would be nice to be somewhere where trumpets _weren't_ the focus of the band but instead just some random thing that was needed but not the center focus. Was there anything out there like that?

Nevertheless we went through the first page and a half without much excitement, as the horns joined in in another part. Then down it went, until finally the trombones blared their music out. I was resting, I guess, but I had lost count of the music away back and had stopped counting, just following along with the flutes. Normally I had the same music as the flutes so it was easy for me to follow along with them instead of reading my own music. I was a terrible counter and sight reader, so it's much easier that way, I've found. But as I looked, the flutes weren't getting ready to play. So I guess I wasn't either. But…wait! I had something in my music. And it looked like the flutes didn't. What was up with that? Maybe I was playing with the clarinets at that part…

At that moment, Mr. P pointed at me. I looked up at him in bewilderment. What, I was supposed to be playing now? No, I play with the flutes, or clarinets, I'm not supposed to be playing _no_w, seriously, what's up with that too?

Mr. P stopped conducting then. "Kathryn, I don't know if you noticed, but you have a solo there." He said.

I…what?

I looked at my music. "Where?" I asked.

"Right there, at 83." Mr. P informed me. "Right after the trombones make their entrance. That's a solo, and you didn't play it."

"Oh…" I replied, my mind reeling with the sudden revelation. "I wasn't counting properly."

"That much is obvious." Mr. P replied. "Now, let's go back and try that again so Kathryn can do her part."

We went back. I looked at the notes, and they seemed to hover unrealistically in front of my face in the music. I played, and when I played, the notes came out quaveringly and unsure because I wasn't used to solos, to playing alone. But they _came out_.

We didn't do it anymore for the rest of the band period. But as we left, I went to lunch feeling dazed and disbelieving. I had a _solo_ in this piece! A real solo! Not the trumpets who always got solos (though they had them in this piece anyway) but mine, my own solo! I'd practice it, I knew. I'd practice it and then I'd play it a hundred times in band and the come the time of the concert, everyone would hear it! And when they heard it they'd go, "Oh that's Kathryn's solo, don't you know!"

Well, maybe I was getting a little carried away with that. But even so! It was my first solo…well, technically my second but my first with Chandler. And how wonderful it would be! Without any restraint my mind went careening down those places of glory and wonder where this small, tiny solo of two measures was dominated by Chandler and myself and we'd be the greatest ever. We had a solo at last! In this band, a solo!

In my mind, it was the next step to our world of glory.

In my mind, there was no way that we could ever be stopped. Because now we had a solo, and even my mom couldn't say anything against that.


	14. omg chapter fourteen

It was April. April, and I sat on the floor of the band room with my reed lying in front of me and Chandler clutched in my hands. Around me was the familiar comforting noise that resounded in the band room before a concert. In the audience was my parents and my friends, all of which I had told numerous times to come and come and come and see my solo! Because I had a solo! A real solo! It was still only two measures, that hadn't changed at all, but still…but still! Oh the fun of playing it in band everyday, those weeks. The band director would say, "Flutes, flutes! You have to know the tempo! Kathryn plays it for you in her solo right before that, that's what you're supposed to play as well!" He'd say. I'd grin shyly and try to look modest, though inwardly I was secretly gloating. Only a step closer to the orchestra, Chandler would say. Today, two measure solos. Tomorrow, maybe they'll be one bar long. And soon…and soon the entire orchestra will be ours! Chandler's oboey ambitions mirrored my own. I was this little freshman oboist who dreamed of an orchestra, dreamed of a place where playing the oboe really mattered. Where I could be heard and needed and used often, where the fact that I was an oboist would be splendid to all members of the orchestra, where trumpets were minimal and I the most important. Great ambitions for a little freshman, I know. But they resounded in my head every day, and every day I looked to that hopeful future.

Chandler was a student oboe who had the same ambitions I did…to rise out of that state of being a student oboe destined for a life in the high school band, in the hands of mediocre oboists. Oboes, you see, aren't content with mediocrity or student levels. Chandler was just like any other oboe in that sense…he wanted to be the best, the one with all the solos, the center focus in every single orchestra existing. And the two of us were swept right along in this sudden torrent of ambition freshman year. I would rise up from what my mom was saying, from her trying to put me down. I'd find an orchestra where Chandler and I would really matter. I'd be not just the oboist but _the oboist_, destined to do great and wonderful things. Chandler and I together…we'd take the world. And even the harshness of reality wouldn't stop us…we'd overcome that too!

And this small, two-measure solo was the first step on our road to greatness.

And so there we were together in the band room, preparing to take that first step. We'd also be playing some stuff from Miss Saigon, a musical I really liked, and I had a soli with the clarinets that was really cool. Not as cool as my solo, of course, but it was good! It was really good. Very pretty…I loved that show. I was looking forward to doing that, too!

Let's get ready, then! Chandler said. Warm up, because we're going to do this tonight and it's going to be perfect. I wholly agreed with that sentiment as I tuned and warmed up on the floor of the band room, taking a moment to note how I really liked sitting on the floor of the band room. We warmed up insanely, and even with my storebought reed…it was sounding pretty good.

Soon the time came when we walked out onto that stage and assembled. My heart was racing…we'd do the first two songs, then we'd have to leave for a bit while the wind ensemble did some songs, then we'd come back on for the piece that I had my solo on. I wasn't playing it yet, but already I was getting worked up. Right now we were playing Miss Saigon…and I really liked that musical. Yes…Miss Saigon.

The song began, and it was fun and it was pretty and going well. Then came my soli with the clarinets…

Fine, fine, fine, fine…MONSTER SQUEAK

What the heck?

For some strange reason beyond my comprehension, my perfectly fine reed gave a loud, monster squeak at the very last note, which was a nice, inconspicuous B-flat. How…what…how did that happen? I'd played that soli a thousand times before and every time it was perfectly good! And it was really easy, too.What was up with that? Where did that random squeak come from? I was totally puzzled and confused, but played the rest of the song nevertheless.

"Did you hear that?" I demanded of one of my flute friends as we left the stage. "Did you hear my MONSTER SQUEAK during Miss Saigon?"

My friend, not being a perfectionist like I was, just laughed. "Yeah, I did." She answered. Dangit! I was hoping she hadn't! "But that's okay, I'm sure no one else did. You worry too much, you know? It was just one squeak."

Yeah, one squeak. One squeak that was not supposed to happen! And with the solo coming up and all!

Nevertheless I returned to the seats we had to wait in, and then waited until we had to go back on for the piece. I held Chandler tight in my hands. Oh don't worry, He said. It'll be fine! Just fine, you watch.

I hoped so! I took my place in the chair and arranged my music, staring at it, staring at it with an intensity so great that I was sure the paper was just going to burst into flame just because I was staring so much.

Don't worry! Chandler ordered.

The piece began. The piece continued. The trombones made their entrance…

Ready or not. Here goes nothing…

And…

What?

What, no!

Why wasn't it slurring?

Why wasn't the G coming out right?

Where did that E natural go? Why did it waver like that? Why wasn't it slurred in with the rest of the measures as it was supposed to be? It was only two measures! What on earth could go wrong with _only two measure_s?

Evidently something! Evidently a lack of slurs and a wavering E natural and…what? It sounded terrible! It sounded so weak and unsure. I mean granted I was nervous, I was so incredibly nervous, but even without that! Did my nerves show through _that_ much? Did my nerves get the better of me and make my sound reflect how scared I was? Oh no, no no no, this wasn't supposed to happen!

Oh no, Chandler echoed my own thoughts. Something's wrong with my low notes, do you see that? It's not just you. He assured me.

No no no…what the heck cold have gone wrong?

I spent the rest of the concert trying to figure it out. And I still couldn't.

I was an oboist. I was ready and I was cut out to be an oboist. I knew that, Chandler knew that, and both of us against my mom knew that. As I sat there,I knew in my head and all around that I was still determined and really, really wanted to be an oboist.

And...what did this mean? Was the band director not going to give me any more solos after this because I messed this up? But I was good, I really was, and I knew I could do it.

But how could I possibly be an oboist if I was too nervous to play solos?


	15. holy shizzat fifteen

((YAY! Thank you for all your lovely comments! Yes I know I update sporadically. Junior yeardeath. And you know what I've found? String instruments are easier. I am not abandoning my beloved oboe, but…violin is easier! Does that make any sense?

Special thanks to Ren for your review…I'll be emailing you shortly, when I can squeeze out the time to, don't worry I will. I'm SO glad you like this little story of mine so much! And don't worry about being obsessive, if you think you're obsessive with HP, with my POTO obsession, I own 5 copies of the original novel as well as the soundtrack in five languages and counting, and…well, that's not where it ends at all. Les Mis is totally awesome you should see the musical, it has…well, the best oboe solo known to musical theatre. Brilliant book too, though it took me a month and a half to read it.))

The rest of my freshman year just kind of went on from there. I didn't get any more solos, although the band director did tell me that I did really well on the one that I thought I messed up on (I did? Since when? But I guess if he thought it was okay, then that was good because perhaps then I really would get more solos in the future). When it came time for scheduling next year, without a lot of effort I got into the wind ensemble, the higher band. I liked that idea because then finally I'd be able to play harder, higher level pieces. And maybe solos, because the wind ensemble oboist, Lycia, got lots of them this year. I heard every single one and hoped so much that I'd be in that position next year…so many solos, just out of reach, just a whisper away, waiting for me…

Chandler was staying with me, of course. I signed the form so I could borrow him over the summer. I was just doing it for legal purposes though, because I highly doubted that anyone even noticed that Chandler was being borrowed. I bet I could have easily gotten away with signing out nothing. But I did, just for the sake of precautions.

We played at graduation, which was slightly difficult because Chandler's thumb rest had fallen off and so I had to balance him with difficulty on my knee and keep him from sliding all about. But we did play, and Lycia complimented me on how loudly I played, which I felt was a good thing. It was fun playing at graduation, even if we did have to play "The Sound of Music", which was a musical I absolutely hated. Why couldn't we play something like…Phantom. Of course. It was the best musical in the world.

Wind ensemble though, was still the star shining just over the horizon. Next year it'd be great because I'd play harder music and get better. Maybe Lycia would think I was so good that she'd let me play some of her solos!

_Then_ my mom would see. As soon as I had solos she'd see how good I was, how good me and Chandler was. She'd see how far we could go together. Damn their warnings, damn their lies, they will see the people rise! I'd been singing that to myself all year and I'd continue singing it to myself from now on.

For my determination only increased.

And in two weeks, I was auditioning for the state youth symphony.

Yeah, looking back I see it was a really dumb thing to do. But you know what it's like, when you're a freshman and you think that you can do absolutely everything just because you're not in middle school anymore. I think that's what this was, a bout of freshman egomania. All freshmen seem to have it, and it's quite amusing now, because they are freshman. But back then even I wasn't immune to that.

And so, this freshman belief of doing anything, I decided to audition for the state youth symphony. Things were working out pretty dang well until…well, until the day of the audition.

So I had this reed that was like, the best store-bought reed I ever owned. It was perfect and ideal and…it was the closest thing a store-bought reed could ever come to my someday junior year Reed of God. Even my teacher, though she was a flutist and knew naught of reeds, agreed that this one was particularly good.

The audition day came, and I was sitting in band with Chandler. We played a few songs when suddenly the Reed of Reeds (so I shall call it that, because it didn't quite reach the same level as my future Reed of God) ceased to play in tune. I blinked in bewilderment and took out the reed, examining it under my carefully trained oboist eye. It looked fine, what on earth could possibly be wrong? I put it back and played, but it wasn't playing. Still not playing, still not playing, hey, it was a good reed, what was wrong? I gave it a squeak, it was okay.

Sticking it back in, it worked, then abruptly ceased to work altogether. No! How could it not work? Oh jeez, was I forever to be doomed with unworking reeds? Nevertheless, I _would_ get this one to work. I had an audition for The Uberest of Uber Youth Symphonies tonight. There was no way I'd go in without _this_ reed. Prod, prod, squeak, water…why wasn't it working? Work confound you you blasted reed! You ARE the reed. As in THE reed. You can't not work for me! Work for me! WORK MY REED!

"Work for me!" I cried.

The bass clarinetist next to me gave me a weird look, then went back to his business. Oops, _Phantom_ dork moment. There I am, commanding my reeds in a Phantomy voice in the middle of band…maybe I was losing it.

But the reed didn't work, despite my lyricking and mad oboe desperation. By the end of band I picked it up and looked at it and there, and _there_, was a tiny, hairline crack running from the tip to halfway through the reed itself.

Oh bloody flaming buggering…

The Reed of Reeds was broken.

I couldn't say I was surprised, exactly. I mean…these things do happen. It was the curse of an oboe player, to have broken reeds. In my very first 'solo', I had a broken reed. But this wasn't a solo! This was an audition! An UBER audition! And…and…no. Just no. But there it was, a crack in the Reed of Reeds, the most in-tune, working, store-bought reed I ever owned and there it was, dead the very day of my audition. Not waiting until after! But…this very moment during this very band class!

I banged my head on the stand. Kathryn, you idiot, you should have bought more. I had what, like, three reeds? But they were all really bad, only the Reed of Reeds worked. I couldn't audition on any one of those others! Why hadn't I prepared?

Well of course, who can prepare for things like that? Who can prepare for such disastrous, unpredictable events that befall oboe players! And right before auditions! Oh, what horror, what fate, what…

What was I going to do?

I had no idea. I couldn't go into an audition with those reeds! They weren't good enough, they didn't play any low notes (well, neither did Chandler himself, but with the Reed of Reeds, it even made Chandler's iffy low notes work!), and…oh, what was I to do? I had to do something. And I had to do it _fast_.

I was desperate. I had to do something. I first went to the two band directors, but they were oblivious to any oboey plights. Of course they had no reeds for me.

That day I went to the middle school to teach colorguard. When I got there, I found that colorguard was cancelled. But…wait! The middle school was terrible, but they _did_ have a band room. Mr. Jameson was gone, I think he went to another school or something. Good bye and good riddance, I felt. But that meant that there was a chance that the new band director at least had a vague notion of what was going on. Maybe he'd have a reed! Granted it probably wouldn't be a good one, definitely not as good as the one I lost, but it would be something!

In my desperation, I flung myself into the old middle school band room. "Hello! Is anyone there?"

Out came the current band director. A rather tubby chap who I didn't recognize at all, but he knew me from the colorguard teaching apparently. "What is it?" he asked.

"I'm really desperate here," I began, throwing my plight right out into the open. "I have an audition today and my only decent reed cracked and is no more. Would you by any chance at all have a reed I could borrow? A new one? I'd pay you back like, tomorrow, or whenever I can, but really soon, I promise. Please?" I pleaded, clasping my hands together desperately.

The band director grinned and shook his head. "Ah, the plights of oboe players," He said. He went into the office and came back out a minute later, handing me a new reed in a case. It wasn't the type I'd normally use, but it was brand new. I mean new reeds aren't entirely good for auditions because they needed to be broken in but…

But I had a new reed! And it worked! "Oh, thank you!" I flung my arms out enthusiastically. "Thank you from the depths of my heart. I'll pay you back as soon as I can!"

"It's nothing," He answered, waving his hand. "Good luck at your audition tonight."

"Thank you!" I called over my shoulder as I ran out of the school, grateful that my reed problem was solved, and having to practice very much in the short time to go before we left.

"Kathryn, did you do your homework?" As soon as I walked through the door, I was immediately assaulted by my mom.

"Most of it. I'm almost done." I replied instantly. She scowled at me.

"You'd better be. If I have to take you to that damn audition today, you had better be."

I winced. My mom was in one of those foul moods that she gets in to every so often. I was used to it, she had been doing it for as long as I can remember. It was best to just stay out of her way until it passed. I was just hoping it wouldn't be on an audition day…

I went in my room to practice a bit with my new reed. Then my mom stormed in.

"Kathryn, you never practice!" She screeched. I blinked. What was I doing right now, fishing? "Never, you just sit around and do nothing. You don't clean your room, you don't help around the house, you just sit there and be lazy…"

Oh no. A tirade. When she was in these foul moods, everything was my fault. She went to yell at me for every fault, every shortcoming, positively everything you could imagine was my fault. She'd rip me up one side and down the other, me as a lazy piece of crap who never did anything. I still hated it; used to it, yes, but still hated it. No one liked being called worthless by their own mother. Or a lazy piece of crap. I had to do my homework. God, I had an audition today! Why did she have to do this now?

I endured a half hour of this, clutching Chandler so tight that his keys left shapes in my fingers and he complained loudly that I was squishing his Ab too tight. I closed my eyes, waiting until the tirade was over.

Finally it was, but by then it was too late to practice. I had to get my homework done. With a sigh I put Chandler away and did my homework, and before we knew it, it was time for the audition.

"Just get in the car," My mom sighed. Her mood was still on, there was no escaping it. And I had an audition. An audition, and she'd be yelling at me the whole time. There was no way I'd be able to get my mind in focus like this! Not with her screaming in my ear that I was lazy and never practiced. I _had_ to make this audition, for my own peace of mind, and just to prove that I _could_ do it, dammit, and even my mom could not stop me. Because I could do it! I had to do it. Just to throw it in her face that I wasn't a worthless oboist.

_You're not a worthless oboist._ Chandler said.

He believed in me. Unfortunate it was, that the only one who believed I could make something of myself as an oboe player was my oboe. No one else did. Especially not my mom, who was yelling at me at this very moment of how I was never going to make it as an oboist. On the way to an audition, too…

_Don't listen to her,_ Chandler told me for the five hundredth time that year. I tried my hardest to listen to my oboe. Oboes were such sensible instruments! At least Chandler was, he had that strong oboe sensibility under his dreaminess and longing for an orchestra. It's why I loved that oboe so much, my dear Chandler. He believed in me.

"Shit," My mom said suddenly. "Shit, I went the wrong way." She did, she made a wrong turn. We went back, then another wrong turn was made. Then…oh soon we were entirely lost.

"We're lost!" I cried. "Lost, I'm going to be late!" Late for my first audition! What an impression _that_ would make. First my reed broke, now we were lost…it was almost like something didn't want me to have this audition. Maybe it was a sign? A sign from the Angel of Music, telling me I should turn back now, I wasn't ready for an audition, I should try again later. He was sensible, maybe I should listen.

_No, audition anyway._ Chandler again. _Audition even if we don't make it. For the experience._ Now he sounded like Mr. D. Maybe he had spent too much time in the band room before I found him. I listened to him, trying _not_ to think of the broken reeds and the getting lost as an omen.

Finally we found our way, but when I glanced at the clock…oh, shizz. The audition was in five minutes. My scheduled audition was in five minutes! There was no way to make it on time! My mom yelled again, now she was cursing on me for having the audition and getting lost. I went over my scales in my mind in order to block it out. A major had two sharps, F and C, A minor had no sharps at all…

"I think that's it," My mom said finally, as we entered the parking lot of a random building. Yeah, I think that was it, she was right. I vaguely remembered it from a fifth grade audition for the same symphony. That audition didn't even deserve a mention, because I wasn't serious about it at all, I was just doing it for the heck of it and really didn't care. But _this_ one mattered. It would maybe launch my start as an oboist. It would give Chandler his orchestra. And even more importantly, it would prove to my mom once and for all that I could do it.

I _had_ to make it in. There was just no other option.

We entered the building, and my heart immediately began pounding, my mind going off on a panicked thought. The last time I auditioned…I didn't care at all, that could be why I didn't get in. And I was reading the book _Tales from Watership Down_ which was a good book. But this was _four_ years ago, stop thinking about four years ago, you didn't have Chandler then or this desperation and passion. This year…oh, I could make it, I had to make it!

I _could not_ be late…

Immediately I was met by a lady sitting at a desk.

"Excuse me?" I said, as polite as possible. "My name is Kathryn, I'm here for an audition, on oboe…"

The lady gave me a critical look over, from my slightly messy hair, to my Les Mis sweater, to Chandler, who instead of being in the tiny case of professional oboes, was in the rather large case belonging to an Armstrong oboe who was but a student instrument. Her gaze lingered for a long time on Chandler's large case.

"Yes, I have you down." She said finally. "Go in that room over there, you can go warm up there until your audition is called."

I went into the room, glancing around fearfully. There was a girl with a clarinet and a guy with a violin, both were warming up. Nevertheless, I took out Chandler, and the reed, and prepared my warm up. Mom sat next to me, her pitiless gaze scanning the other instrument players too competing for a place in this ever so prestigious symphony. "I bet they practice more than you do." She hissed in my ear. I ignored her, put my reed in, and ran up and down my major and minor scales. I couldn't believe that I had contributed every single one of them to memory! Neither could Chandler, even he had trouble keeping them straight and he was an oboe.

Then I launched into the piece, a happy, cheery little piece from my lesson book. Halfway through someone new came in, and sat a short ways away from me. I paused, taking the time to check Chandler over for anything I could have missed, while secretly trying not to freak out as that time grew closer. The girl next to me took out her instrument…

No! No don't look that way! Chandler quickly exclaimed. Of course I looked that way anyway.

The girl was one of those Oriental girls sitting there with an oboe. An oboe…oh Angel of Music, oh Valjean, oh Fantine, oh Christine, oh dearest candelabra from the furthest reaches of the house on the lake, oh red flag from atop Enjolras's brave barricade…an Oriental girl with an oboe!

I think this was the final sign that I should have just gotten up and gone home right now without even bothering to audition.

The girl took her oboe and immediately played up and down the scales at an inhumanly fast rhythm, then began her piece. Which happened to be one of those evil classical pieces for super super oboists that are populated by 16th notes to the point where you can barely see the staff lines that they rest on…surely everyone knows the pieces I'm talking about. It was one of _those_, one of those that I could never play even if Chandler and I lived to be five hundred years old.

It was at that very moment that the slim chance I had became no chance at all.

I was this close to fainting. I felt lightheaded and dizzy, like I was going to float away, even my grip on Chandler and his sturdy keys felt far away and vague. My heart seemed to want to take a life of its own and join my marching band, the way it was pounding. My hands began to shake and sweat, and I knew at that moment that if I tried to play anything it wouldn't work because my hands would shake so bad and mess up all of my notes.

I should just get up. Get up and go home, go home Kathryn and Chandler, there is no place for you here. Oriental oboe girl kept playing, oblivious to my near passing out. Mom, just a roll of the eyes. Ladies next to me who were writing down things were scowling when I made a feeble attempt to play "Angel of Music" just to see if I remembered it (I didn't).

And of course, as if things weren't bad enough, my name was the next to be called.

"Good luck." My mom said as I tottered off to the giant room with my music and Chandler.

The room was enormous, and the judges were all sitting at a white table with paper in front of them. None of the judges were under the age of 40. There was a single chair and music stand in the center of the too-bright room.

Don't worry! Chandler said. But I did.

I sat down hard in the chair and put my music in front of me. "Kathryn, is it?" said one of the judges.

"Yes," I answered.

"Describe your oboe and oboe career thus far to me." Hah. Career.

"I've been playing for five years, and my oboe Chandler here is an Armstrong." I began. Stupid, stupid, _stupid!_ You don't tell the judges what your oboe's name is! Even if your oboe does have a name, you certainly don't tell it to the judges! Oh I bet they think I'm a psycho now. "I'm in the concert band at my high school and I had a solo in April. I'm so sorry if I sound bad, my reed broke today and I'm on a brand new one…." More stupidity. Kathryn, just shut up and don't say anything more.

"That's okay," Another judge said. "We've had many people make it in on broken reeds. Now what about yourself?"

"I like Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables," I said a bit too quickly. "They're really good musicals and everyone should see them." Shut up…shut up!

"Ah, Phantom. I know the first oboist of Phantom."

"Melanie Feld?" I asked, then had to mentally slap myself again. Way to show them how obsessed you are, I thought. But the judge just nodded.

"Well, let's get this started then." He asked me for several major and minor scales and I played through those no problem, even with my shaking hands. Thank god I knew all of those by heart, that was simply glorious. Then I played my piece, with only a few minor problems that I tried to push out of my head.

Then there was the sight reading. A piece by Tchiakovsky…

And I never blew more at sight reading than I did that day. I collapsed and died before the first triplet was out, barely stumbling along with rhythms and key signatures and my sharps and the whole piece simply fell apart…no, not just fell apart, exploded and died into a million teeny tiny pieces at my feet. Totally. When I finished, I was closer to tears than I had ever been before.

"Thank you, Kathryn," A judge said. "We'll be in touch." I barely managed to nod before running out of the room, just in time to see Oriental oboe girl with her super oriental talent go in after me. There was no doubt _she_ was going to get in. And I was willing to bet she didn't have a quarter of the passion or desperate need to get in that I did!

I didn't say anything to my mom for the rest of the trip, but I could tell that she knew and was silently gloating.

And it was all confirmed to me two weeks later, when once again the letter came…

"Thank you for auditioning, but

…better luck next time."

That's what they always said to me after an audition.

Even in my sheer desperation, I didn't see why this would have been any different.


End file.
